


And You Know Me (I Could Not Give Up on You)

by keycchan



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: (but just a little bit. the rest of it is just-), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, Presumed Dead, Sappy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, basically starts off sad then gets progressively sappier, the fic in which gay cowboy husbands become actual gay cowboy husbands, they're so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: The thought of the end, the steps of a beginning.Sunsets, recovery, little talks, and a proposal.





	And You Know Me (I Could Not Give Up on You)

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings not included in tags bc idk:** possible historical inaccuracies, a lot of repeating dialogue bc how do words work even, copious references to the literary work les mis, just. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ this thing is just a whole lot of self indulgence okay, enjoy

_“I can’t do this. Billy, I can’t, I can’t do this — “_

_“Then don’t.”_

_“... What?”_

_“Go. Just go.”_

_“Billy, I can’t leave you — “_

_“I’ve survived long before you. Fought against worst odds than this. I’ll be fine. And I can’t — we can’t afford for you to lose your head in the fight. I can’t take care of you, Goody. I can’t cover for your weakness. Not this time — “_

 

* * *

 

 

_“ — I knew you’d come back — “_

_“ — just like my daddy used to say — “_

_“ — Oh, Goody — “_

 

* * *

 

 

The last thing Goodnight sees before he closes his eyes is the great, wide sky, endless blue and streaked with white.

The last thing Goodnight sees when he finally hits the ground, however, eyes shutting with sudden dark — is Billy Rocks, shoulders shaking and shaking with laughter and eyes scrunched and silver hairpin glimmering gorgeous.

 _That’s right_ , he thinks as the world goes murky and death finally comes to stand at his doorstep,  _sky ain’t worth a thing to Billy’s smile_.

 _World ain’t worth a thing without Billy Rocks in it_.

As he draws his last feeble breath, he hopes against hope that God deigns for that one last mercy on his soul. That he can see Billy again,  _be_  with Billy again, wherever they hope to end up after all this, if there’s anything after this at all. Doesn’t matter where. The valleys of hell would be nothing if Billy rode by his side, and the gold and glory of heaven would be worth just as much unless Billy was there.

He knows he’s not worth the kindness, but he prays for it anyway.

And with that, Goodnight Robicheaux dies.

 

* * *

 

 

... Except that he doesn’t.

“Lord above,” Goodnight hisses, feeling himself swim back up above the murky waters of his mind only to be slapped in the face with blinding sunlight and a body aching harder than it’s got any right to.

“Most certainly is one,” comes a familiar voice, all warbling and reedy and soft-pitched, “Lookin’ out for us by the look of things, keeping us the way we did.”

Goodnight isn’t so sure about that. Seems a mite cruel, even — the good lord keeping him alive, but battered to blazes, his lungs burning with every inhale. His chest feels like a whole stable’s worth of trampling grounds, radiating in particular all up his back and down his right side. Breathing feels like hell, and the light hurts his eyes.

A big, burly ol’ shadow suddenly crosses his field of vision. He hears the sound of curtains shutting and a merciful dim, and he finally sighs slow in pained relief as Jack Horne seats himself back on the chair by his bedside.

“Thought the sun would wake you up some,” Horne says by way of explanation, “Seems to have worked just fine.”

“At the cost of my eyesight, sure.” Goodnight says but doesn’t mean, half a smile twitching as he breathes shallow.  _Lord, but my lungs_.

“Easy, Goody. Breathe deep. I know it hurts, but you got peppered by a gatling gun and then fell off a steeple. Been out two days.” Comes another familiar voice, this time low and steady, from the doorway. Footsteps after, as the voice nears. “Broke a couple of ribs on your right side, lucky enough you didn’t break the rest of your spine with it. Now breathe in proper or you’re gonna flood your lungs.”

“Sam Chisolm,” Goodnight manages, grunting as he tries to sit upright, “As I live and breathe, is this your way of welcoming me back to the world?”

“The fact I get to welcome you back at all should be a thing in itself.” Sam says, all serious, but there’s an undercurrent of laughter to his tone. Relief.

And Goodnight, beyond all of this, feels exactly the same. Eyes finally adjusted and the glare of sunlight finally out of the way — he’s not quite sure if he wants to praise or whine at Jack Horne for laying his bed right down by the window — he can see them at his bedside,  _alive_. Horne, eased back on his almost comically small ‘n rickety wooden chair, hand bandaged up but otherwise looking right as rain; Sam, standing easy by his bedside, looking absolutely no worse for the wear and dressed dark as always. Both of them,  _smiling_ , the lines of tension that’d marred everyone’s features in the week leading up to the fight finally gone.

It’s a wonderful feeling. Makes him smile and breathe easier with what he thinks it means, however marginally for the latter thanks to the unkind conditions of his ribs.

Wisely, Goodnight decides against sitting up for now, and eases back down onto his pillow. “We won.” It’s not a question.

Sam nods anyway. “We won, all of us. Had a couple of losses, and any life lost is one too many — but Bogue bit the ground. Rose Creek is safe.”

“Losses?”

“Some of the farmers, mostly. A few good horses caught in the crossfire. But otherwise, we’re good.” Sam says, before catching Goodnight’s eyes and softening his stance. “All seven of us, alive and accounted for.”

 _Oh, thank God. Thank God. It’s all over, thank God_. Goodnight sighs, and closes his eyes. Repeats the gratitude in his mind another time over before opening them again, looking to where Horne’s getting up off his chair.

“Looks like the two of you got off scratch-free.” Goodnight manages to tease, grinning, even as his chest burns with the talking. He’s hardly even actually bitter about it.

Horne chuckles. “Got three arrows in me, but I suppose so.”

“Not all of us have a penchant for the dramatic like you, Goody.” Sam says fondly, patting Horne on the shoulder as the big guy lumbers to the other bed in the room, moving to lay down himself. “Most of us got out of that fight with minimal damage, if you could believe it. Some of ‘em are out right now, helping with the rebuilding.”

Honestly? Goodnight  _can’t_  believe it. Been convinced the whole plan was a death wish from the start, hollow-eyed owls trailing each of ‘em and him in particular, and when he came riding back from his cowardice and into the bloodbath of the town he hadn’t expected to live past sundown. All he could think of was this: if death was gonna get him anyway then by  _God_ , he’ll drag Bogue’s men down with him, kicking and screaming and bleeding all the way.

And if he  _was_  gonna die, the last thing he’d ever want to see is Billy Rocks.

Now? Waking up with some ribs and bullet wounds that’ll take a month or so to be good again,  _knowing_  that his friends are all out there and alive? It’s more than Goodnight could believe, and could ever ask for. To know, to  _know_ , that he can see Billy again, is more than Goodnight could ever demand of any being holy and unholy. Billy’s alive. They all are.

_Thank God._

“You always had a way of makin’ things work, Sam. Doesn’t seem like an exception here either.” Goodnight finally points out, smiles when Sam snorts at it, and Horne’s quiet snore of approval from across the room. The more Goodnight looks, the more he realizes that it’s only the two of them lying here. Huh. “Looks like I got worst off if it’s just me ‘n the bear over here. Everyone else made it out scratchless? Even  _Faraday_?”

A bit of tension comes back to Sam’s face then, but not enough worth worrying about. “’Fraid not. Could say damage wise, Faraday had the worst of it — can’t blame him, the way he went after that gatling, burnin’ the breeze on that wild buck of his.” Sam shakes his head. “Got shot at five times, nearly got blown up. By good rights, the man should be in pieces after that stunt with the dynamite. As it is, though, all he’s got is a couple more bullet scars, a bum leg, some nasty bruises ‘n burns, missing finger or two. Will be achin’ something awful for a long, long while, but he’ll live.”

Goodnight winces.  _Christ alive_. “Still more parts off of him than there ought to be. Man sounds like he made it by the skin of his teeth.”

“Well, can’t never say the man ain’t lucky.” Sam shrugs, before cracking a smile that makes Goodnight relax. “And anyway, he’s been up longer than you. In a great deal of pain, but he’s making up for it by being a pain to everyone else, so I’d say he’ll be fine given time. Already makin’ Vasquez air his lungs every other hour. He’s in the doctor’s place across town for more intensive care with the others — we just cleared room for folks like you ‘n Horne here in the Elysium who aren’t in quite so dire a need for the good doctor.”

“sure doesn’t feel like it,” Goodnight jokes, lungs aching something fierce with every laugh. But for once, the pain is good. Welcome, even. Reminds him that he’s alive — that he’s still  _here_ , despite all things, and given a second chance no matter how little he thinks he deserves it. “well, I’m sure you know what I’m thinkin’, but could you do me one more favour ‘n call Billy up here for me? I owe that man a great deal of somethings — my amends being one of them.”

He says it with a grin, halfway sheepish, mostways  _eager_ , hopeful, because it doesn’t matter how bad Billy’s gonna rip him a new one, he’ll spend the rest of his life making amends if it means having Billy by his side again.

And then the look on Sam’s face wipes that grin out for good.

The man frowns, brows knitted again.  _Tense_. “Goody. I ought to tell you — “

 _No. No no no._  “Sam, you told me we all made it out — “ Goodnight says, hand shooting out to grip Sam’s leg, eyes wild and his chest burning and, “ _Sam_ , you said, you said all seven of us — “

“And I didn’t lie. Wouldn’t do that to you, Goody. Billy is here and breathing, I assure you.” Sam says quickly, though that unhappy look on his face doesn’t go away, even when Goodnight forces his grip to un-tense itself, eyes aching wide in fear and trepidation. “Wound-wise, Billy got off easier than most of you. Couple of bullets grazed and nicked, one to his chest and gut but nothing that struck anything vital.”

Goodnight dares to breathe a slow, painful exhale. “Thank God. So why — “

“Infection.”

And Goodnight’s world goes cold for the second time in two days.

Sam continues talking, though. Voice plain and carefully calm, making sure to look Goodnight in the eyes, keep them focused in on them. “We thought he’d be alright, but he took to fever ‘bout a day into it. Barely woken since.”

The last time Goodnight’s gut had dropped this severely, abruptly cold and flicking up his spine, there was a goddamn gatling gun in the not-so-distant horizon. Fear screaming up his ears with blood and eyes wide and terrified, looking for Billy in the crowd, hoping and praying to every God in and out of his beliefs that he wouldn’t see dark hair and a silver pin in the sea of bodies around him, the jaws of death gnashing at his heels the whole way among the crow of battle cries and gun blasts and splattered blood.

And yet this is worse. Somehow, somehow, this is  _worse_.

“Where is he,” Goodnight finally finds the voice to ask, doesn’t give a rat’s ass how much it quakes, how his eyes burn when he looks at the sadness on Sam Chisolm’s face, “Sam,  _where is he_?”

“In the doc’s place, room next to Faraday’s.” Sam says, a warm palm placing itself on Goodnight’s shaking arm, eyes going abruptly soft in the disarming way he does somehow. “Want me to take you there?”

And a part of Goodnight wants to snap, wants to scream  _of course I goddamn do_ , because why wouldn’t he, Sam would know — and he doesn’t, because Sam  _does_  know. Doesn’t tell Goodnight that he’s not meant to be out of bed yet, that this will hurt, that his wounds will protest something awful. Sam knows, and Goodnight will never stop being grateful to this man for all his born days for the man knowing him enough to not say a word. He knew it then, he knows it now, and when he nods and Sam doesn’t say another word before offering his arms as a guide, he knows he’ll know it forever.

It does hurt, is the thing. God  _almighty_  does it hurt. Even with Sam holding him up and shouldering most of the weight, every step brings out every sore in Goodnight that he didn’t know it was even possible  _to_  have, and every wheezing breath makes his chest feel like just one massive bruise. The stairs are a new form of hell. Just moving across the road and walking the few dozen measly steps to the good doctor’s place is enough to wind him, Sam in the end just lifting him up the steps up the porch, and it  _still_  hurts when he forces himself to take the steps up the stairs to the sickroom.

But nothing, in all of Goodnight’s days of living, has anything ever hurt him more than seeing Billy the way he does now.

 _His_  Billy, all lean strength and feline grace; his Billy, coiled muscles ready to pounce and body glorious and hair as dark and gorgeous as an oil slick; his Billy, whose presence alone was larger than life — looking damn near dwarfed the way he’s lying in the bed alone, eyes shut and in clear discomfort, sweat pasting grimy hair to greasy skin. Asleep he looks exhausted,  _gaunt_ , and so, so still. His Billy is never this still, not even in the seconds before a quickdraw, before a fight, Billy is never,  _never_  —

“Billy?” Goodnight whispers, weak and reedy even as Sam manoeuvres him over to the nearby chair to sit by the man’s bedside, “Billy, c’mon. Could you open your eyes for me, cher?”

Billy doesn’t respond. Goodnight’s heart drops.

A hushed, frantic voice comes from the doorway behind him. “Mr Robicheaux — Mr  _Chisolm_ , he can’t be here, he ain’t even s’pposed to be out of bed yet let alone walkin’ out of the place and all the way up here, we can’t — “

“I couldn’t stop him if I tried.” Sam says, shrug in his voice, and Goodnight would laugh if fear wasn’t clawing up his lungs worse than his ribs are.

The doctor won’t seem to have it. “I  _don’t care_ , he could do a whole lot more damage to himself if he — “

Goodnight finally turns around, then. He doesn’t know what sort of look he has on his face — he only knows that whatever it is, he doesn’t care, because it makes the doctor’s jaw snap shut and lets Goodnight ask;

“He’s gonna be alright, right?”

And the doctor frowns, there, straightening up. Fair brows furrowed and tense, he takes steps forward, and looks both frustrated and sympathetic at Goodnight — the first being that Goodnight’s come all the way here, and the second being why Goodnight’s here in the first place. Goodnight frankly doesn’t give a horse’s ass how pitiful he looks. He wants  _Billy_  to be up and making fun of him, if anyone has to. Lord above, what he would give for that right now.

“Can’t say for sure, Mr Robicheaux,” the doctor says slowly, like Goodnight’s a horse easy to spook, “His fever is really quite high. The infection’s taken to him quite rapidly. He won’t eat, barely drinks, when he’s awake he’s not even lucid. If his fever goes any higher than this, I can’t guarantee that there won’t be lasting damage even if he  _does_  recover.  _If_  he recovers.”

And Goodnight can’t help,  _cannot_ help the pained noise that rips itself from his throat at the last statement.

 _If he recovers._ If _he recovers. Billy might, Billy might_  —

“Billy,” he finds himself saying, praying, voice quaking as his hands grip the sheets and eyes clenched shut, “ _Billy_ , please, please...”

Distantly, he thinks he hears Sam negotiate with the doctor behind him to move a cot over for Goodnight to sleep on. A stupid thing to request for, but sweet all the same, he supposes. Assuming Goodnight will rest well at all with Billy like this.

 _Billy, please. Ain’t said sorry yet. Come on home to me_. 

 

* * *

 

 

The infection takes to Billy rapidly, hits hard and horrendous in a way that shakes Goodnight to his bones. War was torture, Goodnight knows. It was hell itself risen from the bowels of the earth and brought to man, and the claws it embedded in him see to it that he never forgets the visions he’d seen, the blood he’s spilt, over scorched earth and broken skin.

But he would take it. He never thought he would say this but by  _God_  he would go to war all over again, live it over every day in his head if it meant Billy would just wake up, and be okay. Because the war was hell on earth, but seeing Billy like this is nothing short of breathing in the apocalypse. Face so gaunt, sweating hard enough to soak the pillow clean through, shaking at some points and then as still as a corpse at others — of all the afterclaps that were to happen after Rose Creek, Goodnight would rather rip out his spine than see this. Would offer his heart and soul and throat to the black hounds nipping at his heels if only to see Billy live, safe, happy.  _Breathing_.

But this is above his bend. And Goodnight knows he’s been fundamentally useless for years after the war husked him out, but helplessness has never been so  _strong_  in his throat, so swooping and vast and threatening to swallow him whole. He can only sit and watch, helpless, as the town doctor checks with Billy every other hour, face looking grimmer each time. The most he can do is tip water into Billy’s slack mouth, stay by his side, and hope it’s enough.

His own aches don’t matter a hair over any of this. His broken ribs, his muscles still trying to pull themselves together, the murmurs of the long-dead in the hollows of his ears and the vacant-eyed people at the edges of his vision — none of it matters. Because nothing his mind can conjure can scare him more than the reality before him — Billy,  _his_  Billy, strong and beautiful and one of the best men Goodnight’s ever known in all his born days, wasting away to a fever.

Of course, the doctor doesn’t quite agree. Has the solid spine to keep nagging at Goodnight to lie down, to rest, to at least sleep at night instead of spending hours into twilight watching Billy breathe to make sure he’s still  _alive_. It takes a lot of bullheadedness to even try, these days. Goodnight might appreciate it, some fortunate future day.

For now, though, this quiet afternoon, he plants his feet firm to the floor and keeps his stare adamant on Billy. “No.”

The doctor frowns. “Mr Robicheaux. You  _have_  to leave.”

“I don’t  _have_  to do  _jack all_  —”

“ — I need to treat him and you will only get in the way, you  _got_ to l — “

“I do not care a  _GODDAMNED_  CONTINENTAL, I am  _staying_ , and if you think I’ll do otherwise then perhaps you ought to rescind that fancy license of yours on account of your lack of smarts.”

To his credit, the doctor’s gained a skin as tough as lead what with treating both Goodnight Robicheaux and Joshua Faraday at the same time. Learnt quick. Doesn’t even flinch, only levels a hardened stare at Goodnight as steady as a boulder.

“If you would just leave the room for half a goddamned hour,” the doctor says, slowly and sharply, “I would be  _willing_  to overlook such blatant disrespect for the only man keeping your friend here  _alive_.”

That’s what shuts Goodnight up. The words shooting sharp and cold up his spine and ribs that makes his jaw clamp shut, pain radiating in a way that most certainly isn’t just from his battered chest.

It must show on his face something awful, because the doc’s expression softens, stepping closer. “Mr Robicheaux, it is of the highest importance that I concentrate and examine him, and with all due respect, I can’t do that with you hovering over my shoulder. Just a half hour, maybe an hour at most, and then you can have him back. Alright?”

And Goodnight, finally, nods. Swallows harsh, in pain and worry and shame for acting out the way he did to the doctor, but still so anxious in leaving Billy’s side. Terrified that if he turns away for even a moment, Billy will stop breathing when he turns back.

But the doctor is right, and has the kindness not to needle Goodnight about his lashing out as he gently aids Goodnight to the door and shuts it behind him. Goodnight spares only a second to glance at Billy — pale, weak, soaking the sheets and chest barely moving with each breath — before the door shuts fully, and Goodnight’s left lost and hollowed out, standing in the hallway with no clue what to do.

He could go outside, maybe. He hasn’t breathed fresh air since he’d gotten Sam to bring him up here the few days ago, and while there’s no doubt the kind citizens of Rose Creek would sooner rap him on the knuckles than let him help in the rebuilding, he could certainly use the walk around. Maybe even talk to some of the others around town, make a couple of friends beyond the ragtag crew he’d walked in with. God knows one could never have too many connections in this world.

But... no. No, he can’t. The good doctor may have gotten him out of the room, but he still doesn’t want to be further from Billy than he strictly has to be. Not now, not yet.

And then as his eyes drift down the hall, Goodnight abruptly — and guiltily — remembers that Billy isn’t the only one recuperating in this place.

The room is sparse as most of the place is when he creaks the door open after gentle knocking. Empty walls, one bed, one bedside table, a chair pulled up to the side as a single window shines humble light in. But there are little pieces of living, here — a pack of cards stacked sloppy on the table like a game hastily ended, a glass of water, a flask. The glint of a pistol under the pillow. A barely-smoked cigar, unlit and near rolling off the bedside dresser.

The Irishman himself, tucked under a blanket, looking banged up and bruised and stitched to hell ‘n back, scar tissue knotted from his cheek to his jaw to his throat, disappearing under his shirt and popping up again on his right arm, a few fingers meeting an abrupt end. It’s a sight that makes Goodnight swallow hard, admiration and guilt and pity rolled up in one at the man battered up and knocked out on the bed.

And, as per Faraday tradition, he opens his mouth and ruins it.

“Well I’ll be,” comes an all too familiar tone, throat croaky but just as cocky as green eyes peek at him, “Goodnight Robicheaux. And here I thought you’d never pop in ‘n say hello.”

It manages to startle Goodnight, throws him off for a second. “Just figured you wanted your beauty sleep. Figured you’d need a lot of it.”

The answering indignant squawk is enough to make Goodnight unwind, makes him laugh for the first time in days, and he’s glad to see no trace of bitterness in Faraday’s eyes over Goodnight’s delayed visit, nor his return to Rose Creek. Lord knows he never imagined  _himself_  to be  _glad_  to see Faraday, not after what he’d done in the days leading up to the battle, but by God if all that wasn’t blown away with the dynamite. All water under the bridge now. Nowhere else the water  _could_  be, with himself taking gatling fire right to the chest protecting the Irishman, who in turn blew up the damn thing to give everyone else a fighting chance.

Goodnight shuts the door gently, body still aching as he makes his way to the chair conveniently placed at Faraday’s bedside and drops down with an unceremonious grunt.

“I’m too old for all this achin’,” Goodnight complains as he eases himself into something more comfortable. “Hurts like the dickens.”

Faraday  _snorts_. “Oh,  _you’re_  achin’.”

Goodnight almost freezes, almost wonders if he’s done an offense — at least until he looks up proper and sees Faraday, smirking smug as ever, even with a quarter of his face gone to scarring.

“Oh, c’mon now. Didn’t blow myself up just to come back to all that pity-faced bee ess.” Faraday finally scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I thought we’d be celebratin’, not kickin’ up a fuss.”

Goodnight relaxes, snorting. Eases down at the look in Faraday’s eyes. “Only you would say that. Though then again, only  _you_  would insist on kickin’ back so hard into this world after apparently flickin’ out dynamite. Always knew you were a wild one, but by good rights you just barely made it out by the skin of your teeth. Ain’t you supposed to be resting?”

Joshua huffs. “Yeah, yeah, you sound just like doc Mitchell. In a bit, alright? Hurts like no other but I hate the laudanum. Makes me all loopy.”

Goodnight cocks an unimpressed brow. “This, comin’ from the man who spends most nights — and days, I reckon — bendin’ elbows at all manners of saloons and getting thoroughly corned in the middle of the day.  _Really_.”

“Least I  _know_  what I’m gettin’ into when I drink. And I’d say I’m a fairly functional fellow, full as a tick or not.” Faraday sniffs, and then ruining his own argument by trying to shift and wincing immediately. “Lord, take it from me though. Dynamite’s not all fun.”

“Noted.” Goodnight nods, half a smile on his face. “Though it fits your character, I’d say. Penchant for dramatics.”

Joshua  _stares_. “Says Goodnight goddamned Robicheaux, who — according to what our lawful and upstanding Sam Chisolm says — got slammed by gatling fire covering my ass and then fuckin’ —  _backflips_  off a church steeple.”

And that,  _that_  makes Goodnight bark out a surprised laugh. “Backflip! Son, I can’t backflip when I’m  _healthy_ , let alone when I’m full of lead.”

“First time for everything,” Joshua grins, “And what better time than in the middle of a battle between a one-horse town and an army? I’d say we’re pretty equal with the dramatics, Robicheaux. The difference is that I’m handsomer.”

Goodnight pricks up a brow, though he can’t help the grin on his face. “It’s ‘more handsome’, Faraday.”

Joshua beams. “So you agree with me!”

Goodnight barks out laughter loud enough that even his chest hurts, and Faraday just snickers hard enough to shake his shoulders. God, but he’s needed this. Wishes he’d come by sooner — for both himself and Faraday. Good to talk to someone who won’t look at him with such pity, who won’t look at him like he’s already started mourning over someone not yet lost. Faraday is unapologetic in his frankness, peppers humour generously over everything, no matter how crude. Right now, it’s just what Goodnight needs, and he has no doubt Faraday needs it just as much: someone who will look at him with no pity and humour him instead of fussing over him —  putting Vasquez out of the question — and someone he can talk inanely about anything with, putting everyone  _else_  out of the question.

Right now, Goodnight is more than willing to happily admit that Joshua Faraday is good company. He only wishes that Billy were around to laugh at him for the sheer thought of it.

His face must show something, judging by how the grin on Joshua’s face dims a little, moving to something gentler, treading pity but not quite stepping on it. “Sleeping beauty still not up yet, huh?”

Goodnight blinks, and then smiles, feeling the whole lack of mirth in it. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

Faraday scoffs, rolling his eyes. “And they call  _us_  dramatic. Son of a bitch gets a little bit of lead in him and then pulls the fever of the century. Think your flair rubbed off too much on him, Goodnight? Swear to God, he’s gonna pop outta that heat, right as rain, and then look at us like we’re the ones who did him wrong by not being nearly as fancy with our aches. I’d bet a whole bottle of Jack he’ll be on his feet the second his eyes open.”

To his surprise, it startles a  _laugh_  out of Goodnight. Small but there, and he grins weakly, shaking his head. “I hope you’re right, Faraday. I do.”

They spend the next half hour or so talking, about anything and everything and nothing at all, until Faraday’s aches finally trump his pride and Goodnight takes his leave gracefully, leaving Faraday to take his laudanum and nurse his pains and go to sleep to heal. And then he passes Billy’s room, pausing only for a moment before stepping in. Feels his chest clench with pain even as he moves to sit on the damp bedside, seeing his love so still and suffering.

“You’d better be up soon, cher,” Goodnight whispers, stroking the sweat-soaked hair away from Billy’s cheeks, “Or Faraday’s going to go thirsty, and who in the world would want to deal with that willingly?”

Billy doesn’t answer. Goodnight hates that he doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

It comes to a head a day later.

One moment, everything is fine, or as fine as it can be. The afternoon sun beating warm from the dusty windows, the muffled sounds of the good citizens of Rose Creek bustling about in rebuilding melding with the sound of Goodnight’s own voice, reciting the passages of hamlet he remembers to the still form in the bed in front of him.

And then, and  _then_  — Goodnight can only fly up in panic, eyes wide and terrified as Billy starts  _convulsing_ , muscles spasming and breathing off-kilter, thrashing like he’s under the throes of hell itself. Goodnight’s feet fly to the door before he can even think, pain in his chest and body be damned, and starts hollering for the doctor, eyes trained on Billy the whole time and praying to every God he does and doesn’t believe in that this isn’t the last time he’ll see Billy Rocks  _alive_.

The next ten minutes feels like a localized hurricane of time. Too fast, not fast enough, overwhelming and leaving his mind battered and lost — the good doctor is up the stairs in a flash, barely sparing a mind to shoo Goodnight out the door before he tends to Billy. And Goodnight can only stand there, rattled, shaking, cold  _fear_  lancing up his body and leaving him feeling numb and horrified, staring at the wood of the door and waiting, waiting,  _waiting_  too long for it to open. And even when it does, he isn’t sure if it’s better or somehow  _worse,_ the way the doc is looking at him, forehead beaded in sweat and tension in his features.

“He’s calmed,” the doctor says slowly, too slowly for comfort, “But his fever... It’s gotten worse.”

Goodnight’s never felt his mouth so dry, his throat so pained. Like sandpaper, even when he swallows, harsh. “But he’ll — he’ll be alright, right? It’s just a fever, he won’t — “

“I can’t say anything for certain,” the doctor says softly, pity so  _heavy_  in his eyes that Goodnight balks, a hand on his shoulder he wants to bite off, “But I would suggest you be ready anyway.”

Goodnight stills. Dread lances through his stomach and guts him raw.

“Ready for what?” He asks, fists clenched.

The doctor meets his gaze. Plain, and gentle.

“To say goodbye.”

And just like that, Goodnight’s world whites out.

He’s sure the doctor says something after that, probably some very important somethings, but Goodnight doesn’t hear them. Too busy staring, eyes wide and heart hammering, over the doctor’s shoulders to where Billy’s lying — so  _still_ , breathing still off, muscles twitching every so often. Sheets drenched in sweat, eyes glassy and only half open. Like he’s already halfway gone.

He doesn’t even feel the doctor’s hand on his shoulder. Doesn’t hear him leave. Doesn’t even realize his own feet moving to Billy as the door behind him shuts, stumbling, chest aching.  _Billy, Billy, Billy, please_  —

Billy doesn’t reply to him. Billy doesn’t respond at all.

Billy is  _dying_.

The weight of it, the truth of it all — it slams into Goodnight like cannonfire to the gut, a gunshot or a punch or the hindkick of a horse right into his stomach, his ribs and heart and his  _soul_  and suddenly he can’t. Breathe. Can’t see, can’t  _hear_ , just the white rush of blood to his ears and the shattering of whatever beats weak in his chest. Can barely even feel the shaking of his fingers as he leans down, stroking Billy’s fine cheekbones and loathing, with everything in him, the fervent heat rocking his love to his core.

Because Billy is going to be dead. He’s going to die, and he’s never coming back. And there’s nothing, nothing,  _nothing_  at all that Goodnight can do about it.

 _He can’t take this_. Goodnight feels it burning in his throat like swallowed fire, feels it behind his eyes like a blaze and he knows this feeling, like he’s about to shake apart and fly to pieces. His knees feel like giving, his lungs hurt even more from a new pain. The room suddenly feels too oppressive, too stuffy and tight, and he has, he has to, he needs  _air_   —

He doesn’t know how he finds it in him to stumble out of the room, but he does. He doesn’t know how he finds it in him to keep his increasingly fragile composure, but he does. He hears the doctor in Faraday’s room, and he’s grateful to find no one else around as he stumbles down the stairs, feeling as if he’s about to rip apart at the threads and burst at the edges with all the pain he feels, outwards and inwards. He’s barely of a mind to take the good doctor’s rifle — while Bogue isn’t a threat anymore, the wild animals out there are, and it isn’t technically stealing if Goodnight will give it back later.

Later. When he can remember how to be a person again, when he doesn’t feel like’s about to fall apart at the wind.

He hasn’t been out into the streets of Rose Creek since Sam lead him out the first day he woke, but even though he knows they’ve been rebuilding, he doesn’t want to look at any of it. Doesn’t want to meet  _anyone_ , because if anyone talks to him right now he’s going to  _break._ He wants to be left alone, to process this, because the only person who could help him right now is, is —

In the end only one person spots him, maybe, and that’s a very heavy maybe. He thinks he hears someone saying  _Mr Robicheaux_  but his ears play tricks on him every other day and he doesn’t want to deal with either prospects all the same, so he ignores it and trudges forward. Forces himself to move, one step at a time, ignoring the furious aches in his body and the burning in his eyes as he passes to the outskirts of the little one-horse town and further into the wilds, to the tall grasslands and sparse trees, to the little creek the town’s named after.

He barely makes it to the shade of the tree by the water before his knees give out and his eyes give up, rifle dropping unceremoniously to the ground as he does —

“ _Billy —_ ”

— and the broken sob  _rips_  from his throat, raw and agonized, hunched over hard enough his mending ribs protest. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters because Billy is  _dying_ , Billy is going to  _die_  and Goodnight knows, now, that nothing else could ever hurt him more than this. He will never know more pain than losing Billy Rocks.

His sobs wrack him hard enough to shake, hard enough that he has to lie down and curl in, hands scratching at his shoulders like it’ll help. Like the pain will make him forget. But it doesn’t — only just reminds him that he won’t ever have Billy’s arms around him again. He mourns that. He’s  _mourning_ , mourning everything, grief shattering whatever soul the war had deigned to let him keep.

Because Billy won’t be here anymore. Because Goodnight will never hear his voice again, hear that gravelly laughter, see the smile and grin he gives so rarely. Will never feel Billy’s warmth, nudged shoulder to shoulder by brittle firelight, under billions of twinkling stars. Won’t hear him speak, won’t hear his silence, won’t watch the twinkle on his blades and the glimmer in his eyes. Billy will be gone forever, and the world will be lesser for it.

Goodnight’ll never feel it again, this —  _Billy’s hands, gentle, warm, calloused and deadly and all the more gorgeous for it. Clasped against his own, fragile pulse to fragile pulse, intertwined after a nightmare until their heartbeats synchronize. Opium in their lungs, desert wind in their hair. Billy against him. Billy in his soul, always._

Goodnight’ll never feel it again, this —  _the lightness of his heart, watching Billy’s secret smile everytime Goodnight cons his way into getting them to share a room without suspicion, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes whenever his weight shifts the mattress. The heat of Billy against him at night, sweat slicked or not, curling until Goodnight doesn’t know where Billy begins and he ends._

Goodnight’ll never feel it again, this —  _Billy on a chair, hair as dark and gorgeous as an oil slick, a thousand colours hidden in its sheen, flowing over his shoulders, the delicate curve of his neck, his spine. Trusting Goodnight with the scissors, to trim without hurting. For the hand on his neck to brush away the clippings without choking. Billy’s eyes, warm and tender and so, so full of love, nothing but love and adoration, the brush of his dry lips against Goodnight’s knuckles after as a thank you, hand curled gentle around Goodnight’s hand. Kisses, to Goodnight’s heartbeat, to his palm, telling him he’s done alright, kissing him until the lamplight flickers out._

These. All of these and a million, billion more — more and more and more tiny moments that Goodnight will never see again. The light against Billy’s skin in the mornings, the way he fights and the way he curses and the way he holds himself. The way he says  _Goody_  and the way he says  _you’re safe_  and  _I love you, always_. How he saddles his horse, how he throws his knife, how he licks his lips after whiskey.

And perhaps more than this, more than any of it — Goodnight grieves for the  _world_  that will have to live without Billy Rocks in it. A world without Billy’s laughter, Billy’s danger, the petty anger he’s too proud to admit he has, the compassion he believes he’s lost but has only gained. His steadfastness, his loyalty, his dedication and his passion, his  _kindness_   — stolen, a light snuffed out too soon, a watch stopped too early.

Because Goodnight could live without Billy Rocks so long as he knew Billy Rocks could live happy. Because he would gladly bear the weight of his sins alone, the scars of war, if the world would just open its eyes. See the man that Billy is — _was_ , see all the good that Goodnight sees in him every single day, the kind of man willing to fight for people he never even knew, for a town that would disappear in years, for a man as broken as Goodnight, every single day, for almost a decade.

Billy Rocks is one of the best men the world would ever see, and Billy will die without ever believing it.

And just the idea of it is enough to send Goodnight gasping with sobs, tears and snot down his face as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. Hard enough to see stars.  _Living_  without Billy — it’s not living at all, not like  _this_ , in all its unfairness. He will lives years and years and years more, body alive but his spirit gone, because Billy is gone. The yawning chasm of the loss, of realization, sends Goodnight heaving through his tears into the dirt, the smell of earth and the long dry grass around him only reminding him of the thousands of desert nights he will never spend with Billy again.

 _I’m going to miss you_ , he thinks, overwhelmed in his grief.  _I’m going to miss you, and I’m going to miss everything we had, and everything we have, and everything we were supposed to have. You were supposed to teach me your words. I was supposed to show you New Orleans. We were supposed to see the world. We were supposed to build a homestead, some fortunate future day, a place of our very own. And we were gonna grow old there, and soft, and happy, and what I would give to have been able to see your gorgeous hair go grey. What I would give to have been able to see the wrinkles ‘round your eyes._

_I’ll love you always, Billy Rocks. My soul will die with you but my heart will love you still. And I’ll exist without you but I will be less for it, and one day when we meet once more I’ll fall in love with you all over again._

_No matter when that is. No matter where that’ll be._

_Wherever you go, I go._

His throat burns and the afternoon sun is scorching but Goodnight feels cold. Feels hollowed out, empty, swooping with all the vastness inside him that he knows now had held all of  _Billy_  and empty, empty, empty now that Billy is going. Exhausted, cried out, even though the tears won’t stop and he can’t breathe. And so Goodnight curls in harder, like he wants to disappear. Harder, even if his lungs and ribs scream. Harder, because if he does he can pretend Billy’s curled at his back, them back together. Lying in the tall grass, and holding, as they always do.

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but by the time he jolts back awake the sun has started its descent. The world is a brilliant orange. 

And Goodnight surges up in cold, cold  _panic_.

 _Oh God, oh God_ , Goodnight scrambles to stand, a wave of dizziness and  _pain_  knocking him back down on his ass from the motion,  _how long have I been out_? He wobbles to his knees like a fresh born calf, rifle forgotten at his feet still trying to move. Too blinded by the fear clouding his mind and his heart and making him tremble, because Billy, Billy,  _oh God, Billy_.

If  _something’s happened to Billy while he was away_ , if he’d been  _asleep_  when Billy had  _died alone_  he would  _never forgive himself_  —

And then he hears it. He hears it and it makes Goodnight’s eyes widen, his breath stills in his lungs because that. That’s. And Goodnight forces himself to straighten, whipping around despite the vertigo that threatens to knock him down again.

The town of Rose Creek and its people. Dozens of them, walking out, wandering the barren grassy fields, yelling his name, _searching_  for him. Goodnight can feel the shrivels of his soul starting to die inside him, can feel his knees go weak. They’re looking for him. Everyone’s looking for him, because something must have happened. And for what other reason? Something must have happened. Something terrible must have happened, Goodnight was too late all over again, and his knees threaten to give —

“ _GOODNIGHT_!!”

Goodnight stills. Eyes go wide.

In the distance, he sees a man. He sees a man stumbling weak, but determined, in a way that sends a flare of protective fondness through Goodnight before he can even think. The man, stumbling forward, arm slung around a vaquero’s shoulders and pulled upright and forward. The most  _beautiful_  man Goodnight’s ever seen, now and ten years ago, with dark hair like an oil slick that Goodnight’s carded his fingers through for so long, bronze skin that Goodnight has whispered poetry into, has bitten and loved for all the days that’s mattered. Dark eyes, searching, searching.

_Billy?_

Goodnight is frozen, for all of a second. Terrified. Terrified that he’s dreaming, that his mind has found a new way to be cruel in Billy’s absence, that if he blinks then Billy would be gone and it would be just Vasquez, finding him to tell him Billy’s dead.

And then the man’s mouth opens.

“ _Goody!!_ “ he yells, throat ragged as dark eyes dart over the horizon, frantic, searching, “ _GOODY!!“_

It’s enough to shatter Goodnight out of his spell, and he doesn’t even realize he’s moved until he nearly stumbles over a rock in his haste. His chest protests, his lungs burn and he doesn’t  _care a single goddamned_  because  _Billy Rocks is alive_  and Goodnight, Goodnight can’t even care how hoarse his voice, how it breaks halfway and his vision blurs damp when he yells back, “ _BILLY_!!”

Those eyes land on him, straight on him, and it steals Goodnight’s breath away. Sees them even at this distance, flashing from disbelief to surprise, and then it’s nothing but  _love love love_  and he sees Billy slip free of Vasquez’s hold, and Goodnight chokes a sob as he moves faster. Forces his legs  _faster_ , steps hitting earth and the world disappears into nothing beyond them as they run,  _sprint_ , as fast as two injured men can.

Nothing matters. Not the people, not Rose Creek, not the grass that whips his legs and stains his pants or the way his lungs burn with how hard he’s running, his body protesting at every move.  _Nothing_  matters but closing this distance between them. There could be volcanoes and valleys and oceans and he’d run, run forever, run as fast his body could take and then beg the lord for more to run, in a straight line right back to Billy Rocks.

The distance closes. Goodnight can see Billy, can see the gaunt cheeks but the wide eyes, raven hair in the wind he’s taking with him, can see the determination in his stumbling steps and lord, lord, the fire of sunset painting Billy in burnt oranges and golds and setting him alight, so breathtaking and gorgeous that Goodnight is  _terrified_ , for a second, that this is a dream, that he’s seeing ghosts, that he’s still asleep and Billy isn’t really here and —

And then the distance is gone and they  _slam_  into each other, and Goodnight thinks he’s finally  _alive_ for the first time since he’s woken. The solid impact enough to send a starburst of pain in Goodnight’s side and  _relief_  flooding his heart, and it’s — Billy’s warmth, solid and against him and  _real_  and  _alive_  and — his hands, shaking, burying themselves in Billy’s hair, clutching the nape of his neck,  _holding_  — Billy’s own arms wrapped tight against Goodnight like it’s  _Goodnight_  who’ll disappear,  _Goodnight_  who’ll crumble to ash if Billy lets go, fingers digging into the fabric of Goodnight’s shirt, pulling, pulling, pulling  —

“Goodnight,” Billy exhales gravelly, warm against Goodnight’s ear, voice shaking in a way it almost never does, “ _Goody_ , oh, God.”

Goodnight  _keens_. It rips out of him, open, and it hits him. It really, really hits him.

Billy is here.

Billy’s  _alive_.

“Billy, Billy,  _Billy_ ,” Goodnight’s voice breaks, and he’s sobbing into Billy’s shoulder and it doesn’t matter, he’s burying his own face in his own tears and it doesn’t matter, because his own shoulder’s growing damp and both their legs give.

They sink down together, don’t even have to think about it. Knees hit the dirt, arms still wrapped around each other trying to commit to memory how they feel in each other’s arms, solid and real, like nothing short of divine intervention could yank them apart. Goodnight can only bury his face deeper, into the warmth of Billy’s shoulder. Breathes him in, the sweat and musk and the scent of the earth and grass around them.

When he finally pulls back, he only does it just enough to look up. Can’t help the shaky little breath in, when Billy looks up too, and Goodnight is  _floored_ , in awe, to see those eyes so close to his own again. In each other’s arms. Close enough that he’s breathing in every breath that Billy lets out, vice versa, trading air between them like it’s all they’ll ever need to survive. The sky around them is ablaze in gold and glory, but all he can look at is Billy Rocks. So close to him, trying to commit this to memory, trying to make sure this is real.

It makes his heart shatter, makes his chest break warm, building back into something more whole than it was before when Billy smiles at him. And Goodnight can only smile back, shaky but true, one trembling hand carding through Billy’s hair, the other cupping Billy’s jaw. Thumbs the bronze skin, watches the way the sunset paints Billy’s cheeks golden, dips shadows in the dip of his mouth, the curve of his eyelids, the crinkle at the edges. Goodnight thumbs the cracks of Billy’s mouth and swallows dry when Billy’s eyes go tender, go  _soft_ , searching through Goodnight’s own, so when Billy’s own hand —  _calloused, warm, living_  — cups Goodnight’s cheek, he turns his face into it, breathing in.

“Going to kiss you now,” Billy murmurs, and Goodnight shivers, hearing it so close. A part of him still unconvinced that this isn’t a wild dream, his real self still asleep by the creek.

Lord, the creek. A breeze rustles the grass. “We’re still outside,” Goodnight whispers, weakly, even as he feels his argument crumble like sand under Billy’s delicate touch. “We’re in the open — ”

Billy’s hand cups more insistent, and Goodnight’s resolve disappears completely under Billy’s starved stare. “Don’t care,” Billy growls, and Goodnight wholly agrees as Billy captures Goodnight’s mouth with his own.

The world doesn’t matter. The glory of heaven and the fires of hell don’t matter. All that matters is this — their mouths against each other, hard and soft and insistent and  _warm_ , blinding heat in all it’s tenderness, drinking each other in, reminders of being  _alive_. Goodnight’s hand in Billy’s hair fisting tight, Billy’s thumb pressing against Goodnight’s jaw hard enough he swears it’ll bruise (and prays it does.) 

It’s everything, everything Goodnight’s wanted, everything Goodnight thought he’d never have again, and it makes Goodnight pull Billy even closer, kissing him as hard as he can, because  _I love you, I love you, I love you and I thought I was going to lose you but you came back, of course you came back, you’re the single strongest living soul I have ever met and you came back_  and it doesn’t matter if anyone takes them now. It doesn’t matter if Rose Creek turns their backs on them, like this. They’ve spent all these years hiding their affections in public, but now, now, nothing short of the earth coming up to swallow them could rip them apart.

They have each other. They’re both  _alive_. Billy’s come home.

By  _God_ , that’s plenty. By  _God_ , that’s enough.

They kiss until they’re almost shaking apart, and it’s amazing still, really, when they part, because it means Goodnight can look at Billy again. Feels sprigs of ivy and honeysuckle blooming warm in his chest, dripping out his broken ribs like melted sunshine, watching Billy’s breath come heavy from the kissing. And when Billy smiles he can feel it under his palm, can see it up close, the way the edges of Billy’s eyes crinkle. The curve of his smile. Goodnight kisses him again just to remind him that he’s alive, and then again just to be sure.

Billy shudders into the fifth kiss, and then leans his forehead against Goodnight’s. And Goodnight — he feels a weight drop off his chest, off his shoulders, when it’s not burning against his own. Steadying. Grounding. Both of them, breathing.

Living.

They almost don’t notice when footsteps catch up to them, slow, cautious. And when they do, they move instinctively — Goodnight doesn’t even realize how hard he’s gripping onto Billy until he’s peering up, suddenly the bravest he’s ever been in his  _life_ , ready to protect what he’d only just gotten back. And Billy — Billy looks about ready to pounce. Coiled, even after just having been a sick man. Goodnight never thought having Billy so tense against him would be comforting.

But Goodnight’s sharp gaze only meets familiar brown eyes, warm and bemused and faintly exasperated, and he relaxes immediately.

“Relax,  _amigo_ ,” comes a familiar amused drawl, faintly tired, “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

The tension leaves the both of them, Billy slumping against Goodnight, forehead against Goodnight’s chest. Goodnight chuckles. Vasquez shakes his head, relieved and tired in equal measure.

“You scared the  _cojones_  off of us, my friend,” Vasquez says, looking Goodnight in the eye. “Don’t do that again, yeah?”

“Me?” Goodnight blinks, “Why would — “

“ — I woke,” Billy interrupts, voice almost muffled by Goodnight’s shirt, “I woke and you weren’t there. I asked for you, and no one could find you.”

“One of the farmer boys, they say they see you walking off this afternoon, after the doctor saw Billy.” Vasquez says, shrugging helplessly, “Say you had a rifle. We thought — “

“ — That I’d gone to blow my brains out?” Goodnight finishes weakly, and winces when he feels Billy stiffen in his grasp. “I — I wouldn’t. I didn’t. I just — I needed to breathe. Took the rifle for protection. Ended up crying myself out.”

“Good.” Billy breathes, and straightens up just enough to kiss Goodnight one more time. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Goodnight breathes, and then freezes, when he remembers who’s watching them. Looks slowly back up to Vasquez. They’ve never, not in the open, “We — “

“Already knew,” Vasquez shrugs, smiles amicably. “Not very subtle, you know? Now come. Let’s go back, before the doctor has a heart attack over you both, and who will treat _him_?”

 

* * *

 

 

Goodnight still thinks it’s a miracle. So close, they’d been so close to never seeing the sunrise again, in two different ways. He’d closed his eyes thinking he’d never be able to see, or hold, or hear Billy again — and then he’d woken up, and there Billy was. Steadfast, ready. Looking for him, watching out for him, even having just woken up from the brink of death. Wonderful Billy, selfless Billy. One of the best men Goodnight’s ever known. Always looking out for Goodnight, his protector, his saviour, his sun and his moon alike. A miracle.

( The good doctor, of course, would disagree later. “His fever broke hours before we realized you were gone,” the man would deadpanned, “Please at least give me credit where credit is due.”

Well. Fair enough. But Goodnight likes to think there’s poetry in the whole thing anyway. )

If the kind people of Rose Creek saw what happened between Goodnight and Billy out in the fields, they don’t take any offense to it, and if they do they certainly aren’t doing anything about it. In fact, a good few insist on assisting the lot of them back to the good doctor’s infirmary — though Billy seems to get riled and tense at the sheer idea of Goodnight taking his hands off of Billy. To be honest, Goodnight wouldn’t have it any other way.

Vasquez is happy to take Billy’s other side, however, with Billy offering no resistance on that end, and together they hobble to the infirmary — significantly, in Billy’s case. His bullet wounds are no simple thing, shouldn’t even be moving,  _how_  he managed to run to Goodnight still a mystery — though Goodnight is hardly surprised. Nairn the roots of a mountain or the sinews of a bear or any combination thereof that could hold Billy back once the man has his mind set to any certain thing. Also, Goodnight could use the rest himself. His ribs are hardly in any position for him to have been running or lying on flat earth as he was. His body is protesting most eagerly, and he doubts he’ll be walking anywhere in the next few days, let alone running out anymore.

The stairs pose a whole new challenge, considering the three of them. In the end, Vasquez surrenders, seeing as Billy refuses to let go of Goodnight and Goodnight feels the same, still terrified that Billy’s just the illusion of a sleeping, desperate man. It’s a painful sojourn, with Vasquez flanking them in case either or both of them stumble and fall down the stairs; in the end they make it, though wheezing and pained like old men, Billy gone pale and sweating and making the chill go back up Goodnight’s spine —

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Rocks!” Comes a muffled yell from a room down the hall, startling all three of them.

And then Billy cracks a smirk, and yells back, “I’ll sew your fucking mouth shut, Faraday!”

Vasquez bursts into laughter; Faraday’s cackles ring even through the walls. Goodnight relaxes, and they head to Billy’s room.

Goodnight’s brows shoot to his forehead when he sees two beds. More specifically — the surprise is massive in him, when he sees two beds  _nudged together_ , and the good doctor looking sweaty, and more than a little irked, though by the look of his crossed arms and his pointed look at Billy, it isn’t over the fact that they’d just been caught in public. Which is a first, honestly, though he’s far from looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Billy has even less of a problem with it. He deems the bed an appropriate reason to let go of Goodnight, and goes to collapse onto it without a second word.

“Um,” Goodnight articulates, still caught in surprise and gratitude and trepidation all the same.

“Mr Robicheaux, I have worked  _very_  hard to piece you all back together,” doctor Mitchell says through weary teeth, “And as grateful as I am to all of you gentlemen for saving our little town, let me say this — do  _not_  let my work go to waste, and  _never_  steal my rifle again. I gave you men back your gift of life and I can most certainly take it away.”

That, of all things, surprises Goodnight into a laugh, and the hearty chuckle from behind him makes the tension finally ease away from his bones.

“Ay, my friend. Maybe listen to the doctor this time,” Vasquez laughs, clasping Goodnight on the shoulder.

“Si, si,” Goodnight grins, shaking his head in gratitude, “Never again. Swear on my mother’s petticoats, and lord did she ever have a lot of them.”

The doctor smiles too, then. Looks at them with the weary fondness of a man proud of his work, as ridiculous as his patients go. “I have a lot to talk to you two about in the morning. For now — please, rest.  _Sleep_. Or I’ll drug you both.”

“Not necessary,” Goodnight says, laughs quietly, before clasping the doctor’s arm and quietly uttering a, “thank you.”

The doctor only nods and smiles, and Vasquez says a merry little, “See you two over breakfast tomorrow, eh?” Before shutting the door behind them. Leaving just Goodnight and Billy — and lord, if it doesn’t do his heart good to know it.

 _Billy is here. Billy is here._  Goodnight still can’t believe it.

He slowly walks over, drinking in the sight he’d so close thought to have already lost, just a little while ago. The warm lamplight flickering, dancing shadows around them, painting the man on the bed in buttery oranges and golds, throwing his features in sharp relief. Goodnight lets his eyes trace it, all of it — the fan of Billy’s hair against the off-white of the pillow and linen, no longer soaked in sweat; the honey-golds of his skin in the gentle glow, wearing it like something well-loved, the pools of shadow in the dips of his collarbone and in the pillow of his lips that Goodnight wants nothing more than to drink up; the dark, gentle pools of his eyes, now cracked open to look at Goodnight, amused and fond all at the same time.

“They’re finally gone?” Billy says, voice lower and gentler than it had been just earlier.

Oh, lord, Goodnight’s knees go weak at his fondness. “They have,” he affirms.

Billy’s following smile makes Goodnight’s heart melt all over again. “Then stop staring. Come here.” Pause. And then, “I’m real. Want to make sure you are, too.”

And how could he refuse that? Lord above, how could he refuse Billy anything, at this point? He walks careful over, slides into the bed, and thinks idly that the doctor really didn’t need to nudge their beds over, though it was a kind thought all the same. Now lying here, together,  _safe_ , they waste no time — arms curled, fingers buried in hair or clothing, legs twined, faces so close they share the same breath, could survive  _underwater_.

Goodnight commits it to memory, as hard as he can. Fearing now, more than ever before, of losing Billy, and the idea of one day forgetting this moment is enough to make his core shake.

Billy’s hand comes up immediately, in response to Goody’s shaky exhale. A familiar palm, warm, calloused from the fights and living years in the rough — thumb gently smoothing down Goodnight’s cheek. Something Goodnight’s come to be so used to over the years, these small gestures of comfort that Billy exchanges with him, and now he appreciates it harder than ever. He will never take it for granted again — knows too well know what the stakes are in its loss.

And then, slowly, he realizes — the hand that’s smoothing his cheek is trembling, too. And  _that_  makes him freeze —  _is Billy alright? Still feeling unwell, still feeling sick? Goodnight, you idiot, keeping him up when he ought to be resting_  —

Until he looks up.

“Billy,” Goodnight breathes, feeling every gentle fragility in his soul he once never thought a man could ever find possible to have, “Billy, I’m right here.”

And now Billy breathes, shakes out a quiet trembling breath. And that, in itself, is rare — the way Billy looks at him, now, eyes showing a crack in his armour, a rare show of vulnerability — Goodnight never knew how he could love so much.

“You weren’t,” Billy whispers, and Goodnight feels the lance right through his chest. Would’ve been less painful to be shot.

“I know,” Goodnight acknowledges. Feels his face fall, guilt welling up through his throat again. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. Billy, I’m  _so_  sorry, I wasn’t — “

“Goody.”

“ — I didn’t mean to, God, Billy I swear, I was right there at your bedside every day where I could, I just wanted some space to break apart alone and I didn’t mean to leave you for so long, I woke up  _terrified_  —”

“ _Goody_.”

“ — and before, lord, I know there’s no excusing my leaving you before, leaving  _Rose Creek_ , and I swear I’ll — “

A squeeze of his cheek breaks Goodnight’s rapidly failing ramble, turns his eyes up sharply to meet Billy’s and —and of all the things he’d expected to see in them ( _resentment, resigned bitterness, rage and anger and all of it justified_  —) he did not expect these:  _sadness_. And  _guilt_. It’s enough to stop Goodnight short, and his words to die on his tongue, mouth hung half open like a fish.

Billy’s hand drops, Goodnight’s heart with it, though it resurges when Billy moves to twine their fingers together instead. His face, in a grimace — looks away in  _shame_ , and it makes Goodnight’s mind stall.

“Goody,” Billy says, voice low and rough and beautiful, “You don’t... You don’t have to apologize.”

Goodnight blinks. Frowns, feels his face fall even still, brings their joined hands up to touch Billy’s jaw. “I have  _too much_  to apologize about, cher. For earlier, for Rose Creek, for  _leaving_  —”

“The things I told you,” Billy interrupts, voice taking on a tone of what Goodnight might almost call desperation (but that can’t be right, can it? Not for Billy Rocks, certainly), eyes back to meet his, “The things I  _said_ , Goody, I — “

“ — You were  _right,_ about all of it.” Goodnight cuts off, and then immediately regrets, when Billy’s face winces, harsh. He persists, still. “ _Billy._  You were right.”

“I was not.” Billy mutters, dark. “I was — selfish, I knew you wouldn’t go unless I told you to, and I couldn’t see you walk back into hell, so I told you terrible things — “

“But you were — “

“I was not  _right_ , Goody!” Billy barks, startles Goodnight back into silence, “Everything I said — you are none of that. No coward, no  _invalid_ , I do not pity you, and you are not — not  _weak_.”

“Billy,” Goodnight says, weakly.

Billy just — draws in a sharp inhale, shoulders still drawn rigid from the outburst, before he forces himself back into a calm, or at least something calmer. His face, from frustration, back into  _guilt_ , and Goodnight isn’t sure which is worse.

“The fact you came back proves it,” Billy whispers, so low and quiet even Goodnight struggles to hear, “You left your  _flask_ , Goody.”

The flask. Goodnight inhales slow, exhales slower. “Billy, I don’t know what to tell you, but you think too highly of me.”

And there Billy  _laughs_ , half-bitter, a sound more familiar on Goodnight’s lips than Billy’s. “I couldn’t. I really couldn’t. After everything I said about you, everything I told you right before either or both of us were about to  _die_ , and you still left your flask for me.”

Goodnight doesn’t quite fathom where this is going yet, but a weak smile makes it out all the same. “Forgive an old man his sentimentality. I just... I know it was foolish of me, but I wanted to give you a token, just...”

“Because you loved me.” Billy murmurs so softly. It breaks Goodnight’s heart.

He untwines his fingers from Billy’s, just so he can tip Billy’s chin up by his jaw. Looks at him in the eyes, firm. “ _Love_  you,” he says, “Present tense.”

Billy swallows. Goodnight’s eyes trained to the adam’s apple, sheathed in mellow gold and sharp shadow. “That’s the thing. After everything I said, you still love me.”

Goodnight stares. Feels his heart melt, drip between his ribs to pool between them, nestled somewhere with Billy’s own, and feels his gaze go softer as he thumbs Billy’s jaw. Feels it shudder beneath his palm.

“Always,” Goodnight whispers, and feels it more than he could ever say because by  _God_ , he’s never known he could contain so much love, “Every single day. No matter what.”

Billy’s breath hitches. “Goody — “

“ — and I’ll spend every single day, for the rest of my life, making sure you know it, if you would have me.” Goodnight pushes forward, “for the man who’s life worth living these past ten years, for the man who reminds me everyday what it’s like to love and be loved, for the man who still loves me after I  _abandoned_  him, for the man who was selfless enough to tell me to leave in the first place — lord, if that man would still have me after everything, I’d spend the rest of my life making it up to him. Loving him. Making sure he knows how wonderful a man he is — making sure the world around him knows it too, because such radiance can’t be held back to one man alone.”

His heart’s racing, by the end of it. Loud, so loud, like a stampede of hoofbeats, like the pounding of drums, so sure that Billy can hear it. So sure Billy can  _feel_  it. And maybe Billy can — the way he looks at Goodnight, dark eyes wide and mouth parted in surprise, and Goodnight finds his heart in his throat. Threatening to choke him, the panic and the fear, because what if for once he’s said too  _much_ , because what if Billy doesn’t  _want_  him anymore, what if he’s too fast too soon and Billy needs his space —

And then Billy’s face cracks into the biggest, fondest, softest smile Goodnight’s ever seen, and he thinks this is what the sunrise looks like to him.

“I can’t believe,” Billy says, smiling still, so fond and so full of  _love_ that Goodnight’s own face can’t help but smile right back, “That a man who can  _say_  that so earnestly, still believes himself a bad person.”

“And I can’t believe that a man who just said  _that_  still believes himself selfish,” Goodnight counters, before chuckling, softly. “I suppose we still have our arguments.”

“We do,” Billy murmurs, “But we have the rest of our lives to figure that out.”

Goodnight’s breath hitches in his throat, and his lungs flood so warm he swears he might drown in all this affection — his own, and that in Billy’s eyes, looking into his when Goodnight gentle tucks dark strands of hair behind Billy’s ear.

“If you would have me.” Goodnight says, with all the sincerity he has.

“If you would have me back.” Billy counters, tone like an argument but gaze like an ocean sunset.

Goodnight has the answer on his tongue before his mind can even think. And has his mouth on Billy’s before anything else — kisses him, slow and soft and over and over, kisses this man who he’s loved more than he’s loved anything else in his life, kisses Billy’s gorgeous mouth and beautiful cheekbones and sharp jaw and precious eyelids, over and over and over before saying,

“Always,” Goodnight says, low, fiercely, hoping to God that Billy  _understands_ the weight of his meaning, “Wherever you go, I go.”

“ _Goody_ ,” Billy breathes into his mouth, and then presses their foreheads together. Eyes squeezed shut, hands and arms and legs tight around each other, holding, holding, just,

Holding.

 

* * *

 

 

They spend the next few days this way: the mornings find them late, and Goodnight wakes to each one with the clearest mind he’s had in a long, long while.

Today is no exception; he still aches — he’s been aching since he’d first woken back in Rose Creek, alive and miraculously in one piece, so no real surprise to that. But then his eyes slowly adjust beyond the murk of his doze, his mind surfacing beyond the daze of sleep, and he registers this — the familiar small room, the single window allowing what must be late-morning sunshine to slip in like melted butter, the mildly uncomfortable firmness of the mattress, and a warmth against him that feels more natural to him than his own arm.

 _Billy_ , his mind sighs at him, reminds him, and his tension leaves him immediately  — makes him sag in  _relief_ , when he turns to his side and looks. Sees Billy, still asleep against him, hair a mess and brows faintly scrunched, nudged almost uncomfortably against Goodnight’s shoulder. Goodnight’s first thought is:  _thank God he’s alive, that I wasn’t dreaming_. Goodnight’s second thought is, very fondly:  _he needs more sleep_.

And so he gently eases himself out of bed — no small feat, judging by the unholy hell his ribs insist upon him, quite possibly as punishment for his afternoon deeds of a few yesterdays ago — and manages out without rousing Billy, which in itself is proof enough of Billy’s exhaustion. Billy still sleeps, even when Goodnight gives into his fondness to press a gentle kiss to Billy’s temple, but this time, it’s the good sort of sleep. The sleep of the simply tired, instead of the ill, the sick and the dying. Easily remedied, and Goodnight won’t be the one to deny Billy his much needed rest.

A part of him almost wants to stay again, insists on what he’s done since he’s woken every day, staying by Billy’s side and plastered there. Partially scared, a foolish, paranoid part of him still insisting that Billy will abruptly just — disappear, if he leaves.

The rest of him, though, argues otherwise — because Billy is  _still here_ , because Billy is still here and breathing and well, and also because his bladder and his stomach seem to be cooperating towards getting Goodnight out of bed whether he likes it or not. Besides, the good doctor’s been nudging him to get out more, breathe fresher air once in awhile, stretch his legs and exercise his rehabilitation — and after the stunt he’d pulled, he’s less than inclined to test the doctor’s patience again.

Goodnight steals one last glance at Billy — can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, blooms warm and good in his heart at the way Billy buries further into the blankets — before walking quietly out of the room.

He settles himself quickly, goes to relieve himself and tidy up — it’ll be awhile still before he can dress himself in any way truly presentable, but for now the town can deal with the sight of his untucked shirt and simple pants while his body mends itself. He, at the very least, combs his hair though — he’s no animal here, injured or no — before he finally hobbles slowly down the stairs, casting his greeting to the doctor on his way up to Faraday, and himself out into the streets.

Just a little over a week into all this, and no longer blinded by panic and fear Goodnight can finally see Rose Creek coming back to life with his own two eyes. Dust waters his eyes mildly, sun stinging his cheeks as high noon comes to greet them, but the fresh air  _does_  feel sweet to his lungs and it’s — surprising, in the best of ways, to see Rose Creek the way it is now.

Because, he realizes, he’d almost expected to see what he did when the war ended — rows and rows of the dead and dying, the ground around them burnt to ash and scattered still with bullets and blood and woodchips. Had still expected to hear the hoot of the owl circling, the mourning of those left with the burden of being the ones left living. Children confused and tiny fists bunched in the skirts of women sobbing over their husbands and fathers and brothers alike.

But instead, Goodnight sees this: it seems that whoever is left and able is back on the streets, eager to help with the reconstruction and repair of the little one-horse town. The bodies are removed — have been, of course, removed for a long time — and most of the debris of the battle mostly cleared away. Instead of faces tainted with sadness, bodies moving heavy with mourning, Goodnight sees men and women alike bustling around, eager chatter around him, everyone with sleeves rolled up and helping the town back on the mend. Laughing neighbours carrying pieces of lumber to piece houses back together, women determined as they bustle in their skirts to aid faster, children scattered around carrying tools and buckets and what-have-you, just as eager.

It’s a surprise. One of the best kind, and one that makes Goodnight feel warmed up, more than the sun could possibly account for, the smile on his face stretched brighter,  _prouder_ , as he makes his slow way over to the Imperial.

He’s just about to push the door open and make his way in when it nearly opens up in his face, and he sees a familiar painted face in his doorway.

“Uh,” Goodnight says, stares, eloquently at the man before him. In the past week or so he’s been awake and about, he hasn’t seen Red Harvest once — though he’d been left on good authority that the man hadn’t been hurt.

Up close, though, he can see it for himself, and Goodnight feels another one of the seemingly endless knots inside him unwind, knowing personally that Red Harvest is just fine. Relief sags his shoulders, just slightly. He hasn’t known the Comanche very long, has barely spoken more than a hint of conversation between them — but he’d been part of defending this town, had been instrumental in it’s saving, and is still a part of the ragtag team. Still a  _friend_ , a comrade in arms at the very least, and that counts for something.

For a second, Goodnight considers placing a hand on Red Harvest’s shoulder — and then thinks twice of it, because as relieved as he is he isn’t stupid. Instead he just nods, smiles, says:

“Glad to see you alright, son.” Pause. And then, “Thank you.”

And — there, just there, almost imperceptibly, Red Harvest’s own shoulders ease slightly. No words, but Red nods at him back, eyes going a little less cold, before walking away. The warmth in Goodnight only grows.

And larger still, when he sees another familiar face sitting in the mostly empty saloon. Goodnight’s face breaks into a grin as he draws nearer, and he sees dark eyes flicker up to him. Clad in all black, hat lying on the table, grin lighting up just as bright as Goodnight makes his way over. It does Goodnight’s heart some solid good — he hadn’t been the only one riding into Rose Creek with a dark cloud casting storms and shadows in his head, after all, and the man before him had a heavier stake in this than most involved in that fight.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Goodnight drawls easy, sidling up to the table, “Or is the righteous and honourable Sam Chisolm slacking off from community work to paint his nails in the saloon?”

Sam only laughs, standing up. “Well, someone had to be here to greet you. Seems like work enough.”

Goodnight makes a loud sound of indignation, and lets it melt away to something happier and brighter, a laugh, as Sam walks up to him and offers him a hand and a hug — gentle, ever mindful of Goodnight’s state and his presently delicate ribs, and Goodnight is as grateful as he ever was to Sam Chisolm’s presence here with him and in his life in general.

They only break apart when Goodnight hears a throat clearing behind them, and he looks up just in time to see a familiar head of fire-red hair and a — for once — relaxed smile, emerging from the kitchen.

“I see you’re finally up and about, Mr Robicheaux,” Emma Cullen says, humour in her voice and an ease in her shoulders that only loosens up another knot inside him, “Though you look like a barber’s cat, all skin ‘n bones.”

Goodnight barks a laugh before he can even think, and steps forward to take her hand, bowing as much as his ribs will allow to press a friendly kiss to her knuckles. Her hands, for once, are warm. “charming as ever, mon cher.”

Mrs Cullen’s smile spreads like a sunrise, and Goodnight thinks the dame ought to smile more often. Abruptly, he’s glad — glad that he’s been alive enough not just to see Billy one more time, his second chance, but also for being alive enough to see  _this_. His friends, alive and triumphant — this town, these  _people_ , with a burden off of their own shoulders, starting to finally heal after being too long an infected wound.

 _Never thought I’d be grateful to see a gatling gun_ , Goodnight muses,  _funny how life works out_.

“Sit with us,” Sam finally pipes up, gesturing to the empty seats beside him, “We were just discussing some future prospects. Unless you were just dropping in for a visit?”

“Absolutely not. As our eloquent Mrs Cullen said, I’m starved — thought I’d be able to whip up something quick to eat here, maybe something to bring back.” Goodnight explains.

Mrs Cullen snorts. Absolutely unladylike, and wonderfully endearing. “Figured as much. Sit down, I’ll warm something up for you right quick.”

Goodnight blinks. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you — “

“It’s just leftovers, Mr Robicheaux. No trouble at all, we would’ve fed ‘em to the dogs otherwise.” She says in a deadpan, before breaking into a sly smile at Goodnight’s scandalized look and Sam’s amusement.

“ _Well_ , if it’s for the benefit of the town, I suppose I have no choice but to accept your offer, now don’t I?” Goodnight huffs haughtily, sniffing, before the amused look on her face makes his own crack into a wry grin. “And it’s Goodnight, cher.”

She tips her head, smiling still. “As I’m Emma.” And then she walks away.

Goodnight barely waits until she’s out of earshot before he shakes his head, moving to take Sam up on the offer of a seat. “Lord, who knew the woman would be such a wisecrack?”

“I did,” Sam says, mouth still curved amused, “Smart as a whip, that one.”

“Smarter than,” Goodnight readily agrees, leaning back. “But it’s... good. Real good, seeing her like this. Seeing  _you_  like this.”

“Like what?” Sam indulges. Looks Goodnight in the eye, patient and steady as always.

Goodnight can only smile — gratitude, and empathy, all rolled into one.

“Better.”

When Sam smiles back, Goodnight eases into the chair. It’s true, all true — and not just for Sam, but for all of them. A weight off their shoulders — more than triumph, more than any sort of glory, all of this comes with nothing more than  _relief_. Pride, too, of course, but also a sense of healing. A sense of a new daybreak, a new dawn, a new chapter. They’ve rescued Rose Creek, yes, but perhaps Rose Creek’s saved them, too.

“I can hear you waxing poetical in your mind from all the way over here,” Emma’s voice breaks their contented silence, coming from over Goodnight’s shoulder as she places a steaming plate of food in front of him.

“I’m afraid I’m not good for much else,” Goodnight grins wryly, nodding his head in gratitude even as Emma raises a red brow at him and moves to sit on the opposite side of Goodnight.

“I could argue a lot about that, but I suppose seeing the fact we’re alive at all should be proof enough.” Emma says, evenly, a glimpse back at the serious woman she is. “This town owes you plenty. All of you.”

Suddenly embarrassed by the direct show of gratitude, Goodnight only hums, directing his attention instead to his plate of sausages and beans and bread and eating them while they’re warm. He can feel Sam’s gaze burning the top of his head — not one of judgement, no, but faintly amused. Happy, even. It’s been a long, long time since Goodnight’s been given thanks he’s felt embarrassed by, rather than painful shame and unrelenting guilt.

“Well now,” Sam says, tone as neutral as always but lighter than most times, “It seems you’ve done the impossible, Emma Cullen.”

Goodnight raises his eyes the same time Emma does. “Oh?” is all she inquires.

“Mmm,” Sam says even, “You’ve managed to shut Goody up.”

Goodnight  _chokes_  on his mouthful of beans, and Emma hoots out laughter loud and unabashed as Sam breaks into a grin. By the time Goodnight can find the air in his lungs again, his face is red. He hates, only a little bit, that he finds himself just barely able to stifle the laughter threatening to escape his throat — though he grins anyway.

“This is no way to treat an injured man,” Goodnight huffs, “Don’t blame me if I get sent back to the good doctor on account of your tomfoolery.”

Sam doesn’t seem at all threatened by Goodnight’s words, shrugging easy. “Wouldn’t bother me if you did. Not like we’re going anywhere anytime soon  — been planning to talk to the lot of you about our future prospects once everyone is healed up. Besides, we just fought a two-hundred man army and a gatling gun. I’m in no hurry to run off on any derring-do for awhile.”

“Town could always use more help with repairs,” Emma pitches in, nodding. “Lot of damages that ought to be fixed. We owe you gentlemen enough that you can cool your heels here for as long as you’d like, but we’d appreciate more hands.”

“I assume that’s what our dear outlaw and Comanche have been up to around town, then,” Goodnight muses, wiping up the gravy on his plate with his bread, “been seeing them up and down the streets lately.”

“you assume right. For all he hems an’ haws about Faraday being restless, Vasquez may just be worse, shot arm or no.” Sam says, before leveling Goodnight a knowing look. “I’m assuming Billy will be doing the same, soon.”

And there it is. Yet another reason, among the now seemingly endless list, of why Goodnight trusts Sam Chisolm with his whole heart — the man has known about Goodnight-and-Billy for as long as Goodnight-and-Billy have been a term of use. And Goodnight knows, to the truth of his core, that Sam has no qualms about it.  _Supports_  it, even, has supported it for as long as Sam has known, and while Goodnight has never needed anyone’s approval to do as he so wished, it’s... Something, something  _good_ , to know he has a friend on their side, who won’t shoot them or hang them for doing nothing but love.

Emma, though. Goodnight doesn’t know how much the news has spread, of what happened between himself and Billy out in the fields when they reunited, how much the people know. So far, if the people of Rose Creek do, they haven’t shown it, or at least haven’t acted upon it, but Goodnight’s lived as long as he has by not taking unnecessary chances. It’s why he freezes, now, slightly, chancing a look at her, expecting what he’s grown up to expect around this topic — disgust, confusion. Anger.

Instead, all he meets is her usual indifferent mask. It’s enough to make his own shoulders sag, the weight on his heart easing.

“Most definitely,” Goodnight finally replies. “Tough as nails, that one, and stubborn to boot  — he’ll be up and about before Monday, rest assured. Be running long before I do, that’s for certain.” Just the image of Billy — steadfast, strong, bullheaded, restless, adorably impatient  — is enough to make him smile, fondness coursing through him in each pump of his weary heart.

“Glad to see he’s on the mend.” Sam muses, before inclining his head with his own warm smile, “As I am about you.”

Goodnight breaks into a grin. Almost sheepish — largely, grateful. “Well. What we’ve lost in the fire, we’ve found in the ashes.”

“I’m afraid these were in some bodies and on the steeple rather than in any pile of ash,” Emma Cullen’s voice breaks through, turning both eyes at her, “But I found these all the same.”

She bows a little over the chair beside her, then, rummages through a satchel Goodnight hadn’t seen when he’d walked in. He watches, curious, until she pulls out some familiar items that immediately make his eyes widen.

“Found these buried in more than a few of Bogue’s men,” Emma says, laying glinting knives down on the table, “And one of the villagers found this where we found Billy. Tried cleaning and mending them up as best we could, but, well.”

Goodnight can see that. The blades — not all of them, he notes mournfully, but most of them — lie recently cleaned, lacking the blood and dirt it was sure to have had right after the battle, glinting gentle on the table top. One of the knives, Goodnight notices, is a little beyond repair — somehow chipped off awful at the top and a little bent.

That’s not even to say about the other thing mrs Cullen lays on the table. There, covered in easy dust and glimmering still — his flask. Fleur-de-lis still ever present, pretty as ever, though the bullet that’s caught in it sure does impact it’s appearance a mite. Not even in a wholly bad way, to be sure; if anything he’s grateful, because he knows where that flask was during the fight, and if that old thing stopped a bullet from piercing Billy’s heart then, well, he’d start giving Billy the flask more often, family heirloom or treasured keepsake or not. But there won’t be anymore drinking from it, to be sure, and that’s a right shame in itself.

“Think he’ll be mad about it?” Sam inquires, brow raised at the sight of the knife that’s been bent, and Goodnight just shrugs.

“Prob’ly. He won’t say it, but he probably would.” Goodnight replies casually, picking it up, ignoring his food for the time being as he thumbs the edge carefully. “Nothin’ to worry about anyhow. Can always get new ones.”

“Shame, though,” Emma notes, nodding her head at it, “Looks like good material.”

Goodnight brightens at it. “It is! The very best, of course — cost us a pretty penny and I had to tighten my belt a little, but it’s served both Billy and I well and it looks just fine. Custom and handmade and with metal as sturdy as it is gorgeous.”

Sam only snorts, chuckles low and amused, and Goodnight is only a little abashed as he grins over it. He’s proud of the knives he’d given Billy — more than that, he’s  _happy_  that Billy’s come to love them so much.

It truly is a shame though, he muses, casting his eyes back down to the knife in his hand. Sunlight glinting off of the polished metal, still smudged and stained a little by the wear and tear it’d just gone through — if only he could repair it, or salvage it somehow. Seems a right waste to just let it be as is, or to throw it away without a second thought.

And then as Goodnight’s eyes wanders up and around, he catches the subtlest glint off of Emma’s left hand, and Goodnight abruptly stumbles into an idea he’d long since cast aside. An idea he’d had so many times over so many years, pushed down and buried out of the risk of it all, how ludicrous and fantastical, but now —

“Miss Emma,” Goodnight says slowly, looking at her, “Do you fine folks have any sort of smith in town?”

Emma frowns, brows furrowed. “’Fraid not. Most times if we want something like that we make orders through Mr Brownings — he’s got a brother in a town just a couple days over who does smithing. Why so?”

Goodnight only smiles, lets the warm blooming like spring flowers in his heart carry through to the look on his face.

“Just thinkin’ of saying hello, is all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Billy makes a great deal of progress over the next week. Which is, of course, completely unsurprising — it’s  _Billy Rocks_ , and the man is a fighter to the manner born, in all senses of the word. Seems like he’d taken great personal offence to his infection that’d laid him low, and has made it a mission to heal as fast as possible to make up for all the lost time.

Not that Goodnight lets him push too hard. He watches, of course, proud with every new morning — Billy who looks brighter, who looks healthier, skin losing its unnatural pallor, hair finally washed and clean and soft again after a couple days, looking more alive with more food in him. Certainly more active, walking around where he can, visiting Faraday and being absolutely unabashed about blatantly cheating now that Faraday has to relearn his card tricks with some few missing fingers —

But at the end of the day, and the start of every morning, Goodnight waits for him. Smiles proud and happy with the progress Billy makes, is the first to greet Billy from his self-coached rehabilitation every candle-light — and in turn Billy is there for him just as much, urging Goodnight to continue on his own path to recovery, giving him just enough of a shove needed to finish his walkarounds every day, dull music as it can be at times.

Never knew he’d be a man capable of so much love, but here it is. Here it is, with Billy Rocks — the first thing Goodnight sees every dawn, and the last thing he sees before he shuts his eyes at night. Just nothing but Billy, just nothing but love and determination made man, just nothing but one of the best people Goodnight’s ever had the blessing to meet in this life, and if he could have this for the rest of his born days, well.

Well, these days, it feels like the start of the rest of his life.

This beautiful afternoon — Monday, or Tuesday, or some other day, time seems to melt so fast while in the throes of gentle healing — is as sweltering as any other, but Goodnight’s out under the sun anyway. It beats down his neck, prickling, sweat dripping down his collar, but it’s of the good sort — the good doctor had advised him to get some sunshine, and while Goodnight is sure the man hadn’t meant  _go out and get heat stroke_ , Goodnight was going to take that advice and use it well now.  _Especially_  now, when he has a goal in mind.

He’s getting much better at walking anyway, and the fresh air does him a world of good, heat or no. He can walk around the whole town these days without getting too badly winded, and he’s found a sort of admiration and appreciation for being out and amongst the townspeople — a feeling he hasn’t felt since his foolish, youthful days in Louisiana. Here, amongst the people bustling about, the sound of repairs being done while children run screaming with laughter through the dust — it’s a very good feeling, and it helps calm Goodnight’s heart. Makes him feel guilty and better in equal measure, knowing he’d initially left these people to die, but also glad that he’d come back to see this town be reborn.

As he makes his way down the dusty path, he can vaguely make out Vasquez, barking out orders with the other men holding hammers by the wagon shop — eager as ever to make himself useful, no matter the fact his arm is still largely useless with the pain it’s in and still in a sling. Off to the side, Goodnight can also see Horne and Sam, chatting among themselves while watching the children run by the street. Faraday isn’t here, of course — eager as the man’s spirit is, the body is weaker, and he’s still under bedrest for the next few weeks at the least. Far as Goodnight knows he’s asleep now though, so that’s fine. 

Red Harvest isn’t around either, and neither is Billy. Though for this Goodnight knows exactly where they are.

( They’d left early on in the morning — Red had insisted that they’d walk soon lest they be fried under the hot sun of high noon, or at least Goodnight had gathered as much judging by the Comanche’s impatience. The stream he’d discovered was quite a walk away for a man still healing, but it was teeming with fish just ripe for the catching, and Goodnight knows that Vasquez and Faraday aren’t the only people easily restless amongst their batch of strays.

Billy had still turned to Goodnight though, concern so present in those dark eyes that Goodnight had fallen in love all over again, said: “Goody, are you sure?”

And Goodnight had only laughed — genuine, this time, a startling increasingly common thing these days — and said, “Cher, I will be  _fine_. I won’t turn in my chips in the couple ‘a hours you’ll be gone.”

It’d been the wrong thing to say, all things considered. The weight of what had happened just a week ago still seemed fresh in Billy’s mind, if his sudden darkened expression was any indication, heavy as a thundercloud.

Goodnight’s mirth had bubbled down to something milder, then, but no less kind nor genuine. And he’d thumbed Billy’s jaw, gentle, and then his hand, uncaring in the moment of anyone who would watch them — caring even  _less_ , when Billy’s hand stroked his own, callouses Goodnight’s long since memorized curving over the sharp of Goodnight’s knuckles.

“I’ll be here, Billy, don’t you worry. I’ll always find my way back to you. I do love you.” Goodnight had said, promised, voice low and gentle and sincere. Looked deep into Billy’s eyes and hoped Billy would find the love in his, because it seemed impossible to miss, overflowing with it as Goodnight’d felt. And then his mouth quirked up in humour, because he could not help his follow up of, “I would, however, love you more if you were to come back with some fresh fish for dinner. Beans are getting... tiresome.”

And Billy had — Billy had laughed, a bright sunny thing that lit up Goodnight’s world in hues of love, and said, “I will.” )

Goodnight hums as he keeps his steady pace on his path, nodding his greeting to Sam and Horne at the saloon porch as they notice him walking. Billy and Red have been gone for an hour or two now, but with the sun as beating as it is, he doubts they’ll be back for a couple more, probably choosing to make the trek back when the sun has made its descent, if they’ve got any sense in them. Goodnight doesn’t mind. Is more than happy, honestly, that Billy is feeling well enough to walk out as far as that, get some fresh air and see new sights and do some more exciting things than walking or playing poker, even if said new sights and exciting things are just fishing in a creek. 

And besides, Billy and Red have started hanging around each other more often these days — like finds like, it seems, Billy and Red sharing a particular brand of dry humour and adventure and general disdain for the idiotic white men they’ve surrounded themselves with. Goodnight is just glad that Billy’s expanding his circle of friends — the world, after all, ought to know the wonderful man Billy Rocks is.

Goodnight, on the other hand — a trip down to the general store is hardly any more exciting than sitting under a tree with a fishing rod for hours, but it’s exciting to  _him_ , because there’s something waiting there.

The cool shade of the shop after what’s felt like  _hours_  under the beating sun — though he’s sure it’s only been a few minutes at most — makes him sag in relief. He wipes the sweat from his brow as the bell tinkles tinnily above him, and he cracks a half-grin at the knowing laughter he can hear from behind the counter, amused.

“Well, well. Making your rounds, Mr Robicheaux?” Mr Brownings says from behind the counter, smiling only a little tiredly, the bandages still clear around his forearm.

“As I always do. Have to be fit as a horse before I can think of riding one again, and besides, all this rest and pampering in this town of yours is making me soft ‘round the middle.” Goodnight jokes, and makes his way up to the counter, hoping that he doesn’t look too eager with his speed and knowing he’s failed completely at it. “I hear some postage has arrived into town overnight?”

“Most certainly. Some very fancy packages, some of them.” Mr Brownings says knowingly, grinning. “In fact, I think there may have been one with your name on it.”

“Oh, my.” Goodnight smiles in equal humour, “think you have the goodness in your kindly heart to check that for me?”

“May can,” Mr Brownings replies breezily, “Though only if you would take a gander at some of our fine new products. Perhaps a fresh shirt, in replacement of the soaked mess you’re in.”

Goodnight  _snorts_ , and then ends up laughing hard enough to bring tears to his eyes and not just from the way his chest argues at the movement. Mr Brownings laughs right with him, and it takes a solid while before Goodnight finds it in him to breathe proper and straighten up, though he still grins wide. The more time he spends around the manner of those in Rose Creek, the more he grows to like it — with fine folks like these, willing to stand up and die for what they believe in and still come out with good humour, it’s no wonder Emma Cullen’s the fire-headed, sharp-witted dame she is.

Mr Brownings eases up just as much as Goodnight does, and he smiles and shakes his head even as he reaches down to pull up a small parcel, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with string. The sight of it, plain and common as it is, is enough to make Goodnight breathless for the moment. Or rather, not the sight of it — but the knowledge of what’s inside, what he’s waited a solid  _week_  for.

“Here it is, Mr Robicheaux, just as you ordered.” Mr Brownings nods, sliding the package gently to Goodnight. “James put it on top priority, seeing as he was making it for the heroes who’d saved his baby brother’s town.”

Goodnight flushes a little with the praise. Better as these are than those of him from the war, he still finds himself both sunning with it and feeling a pang of guilt each time.

“his baby brother’s town saved itself, way I saw it,” Goodnight replies, casting his eyes down at the package to save himself some dignity, “I didn’t do much.”

Brownings  _snorts_. “You’re a gentleman of the first water, Mr Robicheaux, anyone could see that. You and your friends, all of ‘em — even that wild Irishman. And besides, you paid us  _far_  more than this needed.”

“Worth it for the quality,” Goodnight says, perking up a little at the shift in topic, and decides to check it for himself by opening up the package. Pulls open the string, gently unwraps the unassuming brown paper, the soft fabric underneath cushioning the delicate contents from scuffs or wear ahead of it’s time to its rightful new (old?) owners. And Goodnight’s eyes grow wide, as he holds the stunning workmanship in his hand.

“These are  _magnificent._ ” Goodnight breathes in wonder. “My God.”

And they  _are_ , is the thing. Two rings, sitting in his palm, shining and glinting under the sunlight peeking in through the windows. Perfect, and smooth. The band of familiar steel gray with the slightly thinner band of shinier, polished silver in the middle.

His flask, and Billy’s knife. He can hardly believe it.

“Well, the material you provided were of magnificent quality,” Mr Brownings says proudly, “And my brother is very good with what he’s given.”

“Evidently. I feel like I’m underpaying the both of you.” Goodnight admits, shaking his head, though he can’t stop staring at the rings in his hand, cool to the touch and breathtaking. He can scarcely believe it’s sitting there — can scarcely believe the perfection of it all. A piece of himself and Billy, the both of them, their history and their years, in the dust these metals have gathered, in the sweat and tears and blood and liquor, almost gone in the last battle that too had almost ripped them apart — now forged into something more beautiful,  _stronger_ , to carry with them still on the journey to the rest of their lives.

Billy would elbow his side and laugh if he heard how hard Goodnight was waxing poetic in his own mind. And that makes Goodnight laugh to himself, as foolish as it made him look.

In the end, all he does proper is look back up to Mr Brownings, wholly incapable of keeping the wide grin off his face even as he offers his hand to Mr Brownings to shake and ends up shaking the whole man’s arm.

“Thank you,” Goodnight says, bowing his head a little, “For all of this.”

Mr Brownings just shakes his head. “We ought to thank  _you_. All of you. We’re only happy to help each other. Come back anytime, Mr Robicheaux — next time, I promise I’ll have the shirt ready, and with a discount.”

And that makes Goodnight laugh again. In the end, he does purchase some things from the kind Mr Brownings — no new shirts, alas, but he does get some buttons to mend some of his and Billy’s own, alongside a new, less fancy flask. The rings get gently wrapped back into their fabrics, soft and smooth and protective, which Goodnight tucks carefully into the pocket of his trousers, with more care than he’s even given himself over the last week or so of recovery.

The sun is still scorching, downright unforgiving as he steps out, and the sweat prickles the back of his neck long before he can even give thought to it. He squints through the afternoon glare, eyeing the Imperial — he could go in, he knows. Cool his heels there for a little while with Sam and Jack, have a little drink and wait for his beloved to return from the creek. Or he could go back to the good doctor’s place and get some rest in — lord knows he could sleep through this afternoon heat and be grateful for it.

But in the end, Goodnight finds his feet turning the opposite way, and continuing down the track he was originally on around town. His heart’s too light, he finds —  too abuzz with contentment and joy in equal measure, the little hum of happiness thudding against his chest and buzzing from the rings nestled safe in his pocket. He feels almost jittery with it. A walk around town, sweating it out, would be just the thing he needs to get some of that energy out and get his exercise while he’s at it.

He raises a hand at Vasquez in greeting as he passes by the wagon shop, people pitching in to help mend fences or walls or replace windows. A group of children almost trip him when he passes by the laundry. And finally —

The church. Goodnight’s eyes trail up, upwards, places a shielding hand over his brow when the sun threatens to blind him for casting his gaze far too close to icarus. They’ve done a remarkable job patching the church up in the mere week Goodnight’s been here — there are still one bullethole too many, of course, plenty of wood that needs replacing and repainting, but the bodies are gone. All of the dead are buried, blood washed out of the woodwork, and while he’s certain it’ll be some weeks still before they even think of putting the work into rebuilding the pews, the inside no longer smells like death. No longer reeks of vengeance and bloodshed, pain and agony and the darkness that had once been at the heels of the townsfolk.

Even the owl has quietened, Goodnight realizes, as his feet carry him forward without his realizing into the cool dim of the church. He doesn’t hear it — the ghoulish hoot in the not-so-distance, the rattle of his chilled bones as he hears the phantom swoop of wings. He hasn’t seen a thing in days; no hollow-eyed people lurking at the edges of his vision, no faces of the dead and damned behind the crowds, no crooked-necked soldier boys gaping at him through the open window of his bedroom. It has been, in terrifying realization — peaceful.

Perhaps it’s because the last battle has shaken it out of him. Perhaps it’s because he’s finally taken the steps to lay the owl to rest — perhaps it’s the redemption, the absolution, he thinks he may have taken the first steps to earning, after helping the quaint town of Rose Creek to save itself. Perhaps it is all that.

But in truth, he thinks it’s because of Billy. Because the owl and the gaunt-faced ghosts that lurk his vision — they’re the manifestations of his guilt, his self loathing, his cowardice and his sins made to light. His  _fear_.

But nothing has scared him more than when he first woke, and realized Billy wasn’t with him. Nothing, in all his born days, has scared him more than that day by Billy’s bedside, him thrashing, and doc Mitchell told him that Billy would die. He has no need for his mind to make noises, to make him see sights that aren’t there to remind him of his fear and guilt — he sees that everytime in Billy, reminded of the cowardice that made him flee in the dead of night, reminded of the fact he’d been so, so close to losing Billy forever.

But Billy’s here. Billy’s  _still here_  and while Goodnight’s sure his mind won’t ever let up on him, Billy’s here, and for now, the owl is back in its tree, asleep and contented. And for all Goodnight is reminded of his own guilt and shame when he sees Billy’s face — more than that, forever towering higher than any of that, would be his  _love_  for Billy. So much, lord, so much — he never knew one man could be so capable of love, but here he is, overflowing with it, so full of it that he feels almost fit to bursting at the edges. He’d thought that after what happened, after Billy bit at him with words meant to kill and Goodnight left, the rift between them would be infinite. Irreparable.

Instead, though. Instead, Goodnight loves Billy all the more.  _Admires_  Billy all the more. For everything he is, everything he could be, everything he  _will_  be. Billy, in all his strength and glory, in all his petty anger that he’s too proud to say and in all his vindictive righteousness that he’s too humble to see — and Billy still loves Goodnight  _back_. After everything.

Goodnight knows that neither of them can promise forever. Knows that anything could happen — could be ripped apart, either by the world around them or the people they themselves will be in the future. Perhaps one day they’ll enter a skirmish that they won’t emerge so lucky from. Perhaps one day they’ll fight again, something so insidious and burning that it’ll hollow them from the inside out, permanently.

But until that day comes, Goodnight knows where he wants to be. For the rest of his foreseeable future, for the rest of his life if he were so permitted and circumstances allow — he wants to be besides Billy. Right there, right next to him, the two of them, for as long as Billy wants it too. Goodnight has seen kingdom come, and he knows, without a shred of doubt in his heart — he wants Billy Rocks. Wants to be beside him, grow with him, become better people, together.

Which is why he sticks his hand in his trousers pocket, as he moves forward. Each footstep echoing loud, ringing, in the empty church. He grunts as he moves to sit on the step where the altar will one day be again, but is gentle as anything as he slowly takes out the delicate wrapped fabric from his pocket — takes out the rings, still shining delicate and strong in his palm, watching it catch the gentle sunlight that manages to ease its way in through the cracked walls and windows.

In the eyes of the law and most of the world, this would be an impossibility. An unheard of thing, something dangerous and terrible and widdiful, the gallows awaiting them.

But maybe, now. Maybe, just between the two of them. They’ve never needed the approval of anyone else to do what they wanted. The rings are subtle enough to not draw attention to them. If Billy wanted to, if he agreed, then —

“Perhaps you ought to make a habit of telling people where you are,” comes an amused voice from the doorway that startles Goodnight like a jackrabbit, “We already had one incident, and that was one too many.”

Goodnight blinks at the silhouette in the doorway, body tense as a wire until his eyes adjust and the shadow steps in. Hands open, palms exposed, walking slow and easy, a clear sign of surrender, or at least of no intention for harm. Though, now that Goodnight can see who it is, he doubts there would be any intention of harm crossing his mind at all — hardly seems very holy.

“Preacher,” Goodnight finally says, face cracking into a smile as his body relaxes, “if I ain’t dead, you near scared ten years off of me.”

The preacher only laughs as he steps closer, dropping his hands as he approaches, eyes warm on Goodnight and on the rest of the church as he looks around. The man hums. “I’m afraid this place isn’t much to look at, at the moment, but I doubt that’ll be a fact for very long. Thanks to the efforts of all of you, of course.”

Goodnight flushes. Turns to look at the door. “With all due respect, father, you all did your own fair share of saving yourselves, I reckon.”

“Ever the gentleman.” The preacher laughs, and finally nods towards where Goodnight is sitting. Goodnight scoots over without a second thought, and the preacher nods as he eases down beside him.

A comfortable silence overcomes them for a little while. Stretches easy like taffy — there’s no uncomfortable praise that makes Goodnight feel like running, and neither is there any undue expectation to make conversation. On the preacher’s part, he seems more than content to just sit where Goodnight is, admiring the view of the church from the inside, as hollow and in need of repair as it is. As if simply grateful, grateful at all, for the fact that there is still a church standing. That there are still enough people left to fix the church, to attend — that the preacher is alive to be at home once again in this house of God.

It’s almost funny, to Goodnight. He doesn’t know much about the events that transpired after he and Billy were taken out of the equation, but he knows enough that where his cheeks are sitting against the hard wood, Bogue had breathed his last. And he’s certainly more than familiar with the fact that just above them, he and Billy had laughed in what felt like the last time — where he’d seen Billy take gunfire to the chest and shoulder, while he felt the blow of impact, bullets slamming into him and wood giving out behind him and then the sky, everbright and eternal above him before the ground came to meet him first.

Just a little while ago, the thought haunted him. Made him feel cold to his core, like his spine had been dipped in freezing waters and placed again in his flesh.

Now? Now he’s just grateful that he and Billy are both alive enough to reflect on it at all.

“Seems like we’ve got a long road ahead of us, preacher,” Goodnight finally comments, staring up at the ceiling as if to see the steeple, “and the good fortune to see it at all.”

“Glory be,” the preacher hums his affirmation, looking contented as he’s ever been since Goodnight’s stepped foot into this town. “May you have safe travels on that road, whenever it is you lot will go.”

Goodnight finally turns to him, then, knowing the gold in his tooth is glinting in the afternoon light as he chuckles. “What makes you so certain we’ll be leaving? With all this hospitality during our convalescence, we may just stick around for good.”

It’s the preacher’s turn to laugh. “As much as I imagine none of us will be in any way opposed to that, I sincerely doubt that’ll be so.” He grins, turning to Goodnight finally. “none of you, aside from Mr Horne, seem to be very... inclined, to sticking in one place for very long. Mr Chisolm seems to be ready to move on whenever the rest of you are, your Mexican friend seems to be getting restless as well as the Comanche, that Irishman seems to be on the prod half the time, and — well. I’m sure your... partner, seems to be of an inclination to hit the road soon as well.”

The preacher isn’t wrong about any of it, truly. Asides Horne — who Goodnight reckon stands a fair chance of perhaps settling in with the recently widowed Mrs Frankel and starting a brood within the next three years — everyone else hardly seem the type to settle down very long. Hell, he has a feeling that even without Horne’s horse beside them, they’ll still have eight horses riding out of town — the glorious Emma Cullen and her friend Teddy Q have had a taste of adventure. Somewhere within her, he knows, belongs a heart of a wild thing, one that would only be welcome among their group.

But then. But then the preacher says  _partner._ Doesn’t say  _Mr Rocks_  or  _Billy_  or even  _your friend_ , but instead  _partner_ , with a certain infliction that makes Goodnight’s body tense before he’s even aware about what part of the sentence makes his hackles raise, and when he speaks again his voice is harder than he intends it to be.

“If it eases your soul, dear preacher, my  _partner_  and I are on the mend.” Goodnight says, low and slow, eyes sharp at the preacher even if his heart thuds with abrupt fear. “We should be out of your hair in the next week or so.”

The preacher turns to Goodnight, eyes owlish. Blinking. And then —

The preacher  _laughs_ , hearty and loud and not at all unkind, and it makes Goodnight stare in disbelief and confusion in equal measure.

“Out of our — lord, no! Please, Mr Robicheaux, don’t misunderstand me.” The preacher finally says, once he’s managed to keep some air in his lungs before blowing them out in hoots, though he still grins. “I meant no disrespect, nor hostility. I meant it when I said the lot of you are more than welcome to stay in this town, for as long as you all would like. Humans are fickle creatures and fluid at heart — who is to say any, if not all of you, would be so inclined to retire somewhere quiet someday?”

Goodnight’s brow still furrows, as he stares at the amused preacher. Half wants to shake him and tell him  _no, you goddamned fool, that’s not what I’m testy about_ , and the other half urges him to keep quiet. Keeping his head low and letting regular people think their assumptions about him and his inclinations kept people like him alive, after all.

But then the preacher catches Goodnight’s eye, proper, and it twinkles when he finally says,

“And if this is about you and Mr Rocks, I assure you, we all know.” The preacher says, easy as anything, even as Goodnight’s heart swears to a stop. It must show on Goodnight’s face, if the way the preacher’s softens is any inclination, and the way he gently reaches to place a hand on Goodnight’s arm. “We mean no disrespect, Mr Robicheaux. And we certainly have no feelings of any ill-will to you, nor Mr Rocks, nor whatever you two may have together.” A pause. “Though if there are any, I’m more than sure that they’ll happily look the other way anyway.”

Goodnight’s head feels too full. Too many questions, too much surprise, shooting up inside him to the point he’s not sure what to say next. Yes, he supposes, he’s known that in the last week or so no one has given him any trouble or treated him or Billy any differently from before. Yes, he supposes, that no one has asked questions, or provided any sort of hostility towards them.

But heeding on the side of caution has kept Goodnight and Billy away from the gallows as long as they have. And so his voice is still tight, cautious, when he prods, “That doesn’t seem very... biblical of you.”

The preacher huffs what sounds like half-hearted laughter, before turning away from Goodnight and towards the door. Outside, they can see a wagon pulling up — more supplies, Goodnight reckons.

“My father served in the War of Northern Aggression, same as you.” The preacher says, breaking the silence after a drawn moment. Makes Goodnight freeze. “Confederate side. But he didn’t make it to the end of the war.”

Goodnight exhales, slow and shaky. “I’m mighty sorry to hear that.”

The preacher shakes his head. “Oh, no, no. He’s not — he’s still with us. But he didn’t stay ‘til the end of the war. He left — he was a deserter, Mr Robicheaux. He saw the horrors of war, saw the atrocities committed, and he turned tail and fled. We were angry, at first — by deserting his command he turned traitor. He shamed our family’s good name, we had to flee town and change our names and move halfway across the land. He had to hide his face, started sporting a beard.

“But then... Then I started growing up. And he told me, proper, about the things he saw in the war. The injustice. The abuse. The violence, reeking right under our noses. He saw the horrors that men inflicted upon fellow men, over the colour of their skin. The land of their birth. The hollows of their pockets. Women beaten and left to become things to be used by the carnal desires of hungry men — children made to work far too young, sold to the highest bidder.” The preacher shakes his head, solemn. Stares, out past the door, past the distance, into a childhood Goodnight can’t see. “My father became my hero, then. Sacrificing his reputation to stop bloodshed, at least by his own hand. And I turned my life towards God — to spread his love and faith and trust amongst those who are inclined to listen. To encourage that same love and faith and trust among our fellow men.”

“Preacher,” Goodnight begins, heart starting to ache at the recollection of a tale that seems painfully, painfully familiar to himself. “Preacher, I understand.”

The preacher continues on, though, as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “Over the years as I travelled and spread the word of the lord I came to know more of the world. More things that were damned just because a few people said so, because people would rather destroy than learn to love. Learn to  _understand_. Allowing human lives to be bought and sold by the commands of a few, letting the evil go free because of greed and power and lust, while good men hang for the crime of fighting for what’s right. For the right of people to be treated as people. For loving, and being loved.”

“ _He asked himself whether human society could have the right to...seize a poor man forever between a defect and an excess, a default of work and an excess of punishment.”_  Recites Goodnight. Knowingly. “ _Whether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus precisely those of its members who were the least well endowed in the division of goods made by chance, and consequently the most deserving of consideration_.” 

And the preacher finally looks at him, returning a look as equally guilty and fragile. A spark of knowing, a spark of sympathy, of empathy. “ _You ask me what forces me to speak? A strange thing; my conscience.”_

“It seems you are well read, preacher.” Goodnight says, crooking a smile, nairn a grain of condescension in his words.

The preacher crooks a wry one back. “It seems you understand me.”

“Too well,” Goodnight says, shaking his head. Hears the remnants of the echoes of an owl’s cry in his head, rattling still, no matter how distant. “Far, far too well, if you ask me.”

“Then you understand,” the preacher says, slow, looking Goodnight carefully in the eye but determinedly sincere, “Why I said I meant no ill will. To you, nor Mr Rocks, nor either of your inclinations. Good sirs, you and your men  _saved_  my town, saved as many of us as you could — and more importantly, you gave us the spirit and the courage to help us save ourselves. Saved hundreds of other souls, good souls, who Bogue might have crushed under his feet if he were to be let go in the world. You fought a battle that wasn’t yours, almost sacrificed everything to help us — Mr Robicheaux, if you were to ask me for my drawers right now, I’d happily give them over in a heartbeat.”

Goodnight  _snorts_ , despite the ugly familiar feeling bubbling in his chest over the gratitude he feels undeserved in receiving. He forces a smile all the same, in an attempt of good humour. “Mighty kind offer, preacher, but I’m afraid — “

“ — that you’ll have to pass? Good, seeing as I’m rather inclined to keep them on.” The preacher chuckles. “I’ve seen men like you, Mr Robicheaux. Saw it in my own father.” His expression turns sombre, once more. Darkening, sad, like a brewing stormcloud. “The war took a man and gave us back a hollow shell. Haunted by his own mind, aching with phantom pains. Aye, soldier’s heart they called it — I’ve always seen him as a hero, more so with it, to live life while in fear of himself and chased by the dark clouds within him, but I feel for him all the same. And men like him, humbled by the mistakes they did not choose to make, who still try their best to be good men anyway. Better men, even. Men like you.”

Goodnight swallows. His tongue feeling abruptly too large, too clumsy — some sort of emotion stirring heavy in his throat, even though he dares not put a name to it just yet.

“Preacher,” he manages, before the preacher cuts him off.

“I may not know you nor your past but I can garner a guess at what you have sacrificed in coming here. All of you. And we could not thank you enough for it.” The preacher shakes his head, coming to meet Goodnight’s eyes once more. “If anyone deserves a happy ending, it would be the lot of you. And while I personally am no tradesman like Mr Brownings, nor a medic like the good doctor Mitchell, I could personally offer my own services if you are ever in need of it. And this means to you, and your partner, the both of you, if you were both ever inclined.”

It’s oft a hard thing, these days, for Goodnight to lose his words. He likes to think he’s a scholarly man — not a smart one, not by any means, but scholarly all the same in the most academic senses of the word, and he’s had plenty of years under his belt to get some token phrases under him. Five dollar words are what he’s known for, and over the years, his defenses. Spinning yarn after yarn like poetry, like prose, keeps him warm and protected from the elements like a sweater. Has saved his life, saved his and Billy’s lives, on more than one occasion.

But lately he finds himself speechless. With Billy, with his friends. And here, now — Goodnight gapes openly, knowing how much of a fool he looks like a fish out of water, but.  _But_.

He can scarcely believe this. What the preacher is offering. It’s never occurred to him beyond his wildest fantasies, has kept it only to idle daydreaming filed away as something never to be, but now? Here it is. Being offered to Goodnight on a humble platter, honest and sincere, by a preacher who for once is deserving of his title, of his place in society as a good man. And Goodnight finds something bubbling inside him, something long-dangerous and more likely to kill than anyone has ever given it credit for:  _hope_.

_Could he be saying…_

“I apologize, Mr Robicheaux. I’m afraid I do have a penchant for... Preaching.” The preacher laughs after a moment, seemingly apologetic, taking Goodnight’s silence as an uncomfortable one based on the preacher’s own affability with words. But he still looks at Goodnight, with every speck of sincerity in his eyes shining. “But the offer remains. It would be my honour, Mr Robicheaux. I can do nothing in terms of the law, but I can at least do this under this house, and in the eyes of the lord. Big ceremony or small with just us three — of course, if you both weren’t inclined to do so it’s no pressure, but I saw the rings, and if you both are ever amenable, just know you can — “

The preacher doesn’t get to finish his sentence, if only because all the air in his lungs gets huffed out when Goodnight yanks the preacher in for a hug. He hears an  _oof_  as he does so, but doesn’t let go — grips, even through the bellyaching his lungs are giving him, and hopes the way his arms squeeze around the preacher’s shoulders can convey everything he abruptly can’t find the words to. All his empathy, all his happiness. All his gratitude, and his humble sincerity.

And the preacher — God bless his soul — finally only relaxes. And Goodnight swears,  _swears_ , he hears the smile, when he feels arms coming to wrap around him in return and a hand patting his back, and hears the preacher say,

“For as long as you want it, you all will have a home and family here in Rose Creek.”

When Goodnight leaves the church, the afternoon sun is just starting to cool it’s way to the evening, and he feels light. Lighter than he has been in a long, long time — lighter in the soul, fuller in the heart with nothing but gratitude and love and a newfound  _anticipation_. He’d once thought hope a dangerous thing, that to engage with it would be like tempting a bull, getting gored by a horn if one didn’t know when to pull away.

For once though, Goodnight thinks the bull has calmed, and he sees the horizon in all it’s golden glory, stretched out and waiting for them. Just waiting.

And so he lets the good mood bubble in his heart, rise through him like air, and when Billy returns an hour later with a whole pail of fish and a satisfied sheen to his forehead like an afternoon well spent under the sun, Goodnight doesn’t even bother to check for people before he walks over, hobbling only slightly, grin wide and unrepentant as he waves like a schoolboy. (He thinks, for a second, that Red Harvest rolls his eyes besides Billy, and then he thinks he doesn’t care.)

“Why, mon cher, what an exquisite sight you make coming over yonder golden horizon,” Goodnight greets, grinning like a fool as Billy’s mouth traitors a twitch, “The birth of Venus would lie in envy atop her half shell at the sight of you.”

“Yes, Goody, I caught you your dinner.” Billy replies in a deadpan, though his mouth finally gives into the twitch and settles into an amused little smile that sets Goodnight’s heart afire. “You seem... Happy.”

Goodnight’s eyes twinkle, and he  _must_ look like a sappy fool, the way he knows he’s grinning at Billy. Also by the way Red Harvest just sighs and moves forward, leaving them be on the edge of town.

“If you must know, Billy, I just had the most enlightening conversation with Rose Creek’s humble preacher this afternoon. Well-read man — you know he reads Hugo? I am  _always_  in a good mood after such a riveting jaw.” Goodnight hums, before he lets his voice drop down to something quieter. Something softer, as is the way he levels a look with Billy. “and I am always, always happy to see you, mon cher.”

And — lord, all these years later and he still can’t stop his heart from skipping a beat, looking at the way Billy’s cheeks tinge darker, just minutely. The way he swallows. Tells he wouldn’t show anyone else — tells Goodnight has taken years and years and years to learn, and who he’ll gladly spend the rest of his life learning if Billy were to let him.

 _For the rest of my life_ , Goodnight thinks, and lets the shiver of warmth run its way through him and settle in his bones.

“Come now, Billy,” Goodnight smiles, hand moving forward to brush Billy’s free one, the back of his fingers against rough knuckles, “what say you we have an early dinner, and then I can spend all night telling you about... fine literature.”

And Billy’s eyes darken with something that stirs heat in Goodnight, as his mouth curves into something that stirs nothing but the warmest affection and fondness, and he goes “fine,” even as Goodnight knows he’s smiling just as wide.

And — and then Goodnight takes a chance. Grabs the bull by the horns, so to speak. Or rather — he lets the fingers dancing across the top of Billy’s hand surge closer, and hesitantly,  _hesitantly_ , hold on. Seeking permission, before all else. Because anywhere else, they would be shamed for doing this in public. Anywhere else, and they would be hung.

But. It must say something — about Billy, about  _this town_ , and all her people, that Billy’s look of surprise lasts only a moment. And then — and then Goodnight feels it, too. Familiar fingers, calloused and warm, wrapped around his own.

And now here they are. In the gentle setting afternoon light, warm in all the ways beyond the sun’s touch, and Goodnight feels his heart fit to bursting with all the love and joy within it. With just this simple pleasure, of holding Billy’s hand out under the blue sky without fear, of seeing Billy’s own face curve into a smile that joyfully wrinkles the edges of those gorgeous eyes —

And Goodnight thinks, as he gently tugs Billy towards the Imperial,  _I could get used to this_.

 

* * *

 

 

The town of Rose Creek starts growing on Goodnight, over the next few weeks. The place in all it’s healing repair, the sound of community coming together to mend their home like a scabbing wound. The people within, who greet him with kindness and gratitude, who don’t ask questions about the war, who only have smiles to give.

Perhaps, though — the most important reason of why he starts loving Rose Creek, is the one standing right beside him.

Billy heals quick over the next month, to no one’s surprise. Heads his own rehabilitation, that one — he’s moving proper within two weeks, barely an inch of pain on him, and by the time the end of the month rolls around he’s taken to saddle again, bringing his and Goodnight’s horse out on a much-needed gallop on the fields of the town, to the mines and back. He comes back every evening, hair tousled wild in the glorious winds, face shining bright with freedom, and Goodnight aches for how much he loves this man.

And Goodnight — well. The rings stay in their gentle fabric, for awhile. Tucked careful and hidden inside Goodnight’s pack, deep enough that not even Billy could find it unless he was outright looking for it, and Goodnight’s made sure not to breathe a word of it yet. Has made sure not to even  _hint_  to it, even though he’s more or less rattling with the nervous excitement of it all. This, this, an opportunity he never thought would ever be possible, finally presented to him as casually as an offer for gravy at the dinner table — he has to make the most of it. He  _must_ , it needs to be perfect, because Billy deserves nothing less than the best.

And so Goodnight waits. He waits, and while he waits, he lets off his own rattling excitement by urging himself towards his own recovery. Starts treating his own rehabilitation with a new gusto he hadn’t even expect of himself. He walks every day, now, gets up and out when Billy does, and then goes to walk around while Billy goes to fish or hunt with Red, or takes the horses out for a brisk gallop in the fields. Goodnight does his rounds, says his hellos to the people of Rose Creek, sometimes helps out Emma Cullen with the farm even though she threatens to beat him with a shovel if he so much as strains himself a  _little_ ,  _so help me God, Goodnight_. Sometimes, if Billy comes back early or has the afternoon off, they walk together, around the area of Rose Creek, sometimes walking over  _to_  the creek, where they’ll undress and bathe and splash like children. Those are Goodnight’s favourite days.

He comes back aching still, most days — he’s not nearly as spry nor as fit as Billy, not even before they got shot to hell ‘n back, even though Billy is a good two years older than Goodnight. But he tries his best, does multiple rounds of walking a day, tries to help with the repairs after his chest stops screaming at the labour, and when he has Billy to look forward to at candle-light — well. Well, Goodnight has nothing to complain about, does he? He’ll rebuild the whole goddamn church from the ground up, if it meant seeing Billy every day, if it meant seeing him recovering, and happy, and healthy again.

And of course, the rest of the crew is also recovering well, to Goodnight (and everyone else) ‘s delight. Vasquez’s arm heals well, despite all the strain he insists on putting it through, and soon Goodnight sees him carrying logs of wood across his broad shoulders towards the mending buildings. Jack will always have one almighty scar across his right hand that’ll ache some for the rest of his life, and make some of the harder motions a little difficult, but it’s nothing in comparison to death, so it’s fine. And even Faraday — lord  _almighty_ , Joshua Faraday — seems to push himself to recovery, as if in a bull-headed race to come out on top, competitive as ever and especially against himself.

Most nights they come together in the Imperial, the lot of them. Dinner — these days freshly caught fish and game from Billy and Red — and a game or five of cards — where Faraday makes full use of the new card skills he’s honed with all his days of forced bedrest, as nimble as he ever was even with fewer fingers to count for it, and completely unashamed to use said fewer fingers as an excuse when he does slip on occasion. It’ll be a long while still before the man can walk unaided, but Goodnight knows that he’ll get there sooner than most people. It’s Faraday, after all. The man would fight God on a dare if he were given one.

It’s good, though. No, it’s the best — being with all these men, who Goodnight starts seeing as something akin to  _family_ , the closest he’s ever had and even moreso than the one he left in Louisiana. His bubbling good mood over the weeks is only stoked further by being around them — he laughs with them, plays happily with them even though Faraday cheats like the dickens with cards, spins stories like it’s as easy as breathing. And it  _is_. And he finds that he loves this even more — seeing their faces around him, bright and alive, crooked in a smile or guffawing laughter or even just a roll of the eyes of mild amusement (courtesy, of course, of Red Harvest.)

And Billy. Goodnight knows,  _knows_  to his bones, that Billy has grown to like them too. It’s no longer just a thing of Billy-comes-with-Goodnight, Billy is no longer just there because Goodnight’s their common link — Billy’s coming to like them on his own, coming to  _befriend_  them on his own, and Goodnight can’t help but beam everytime he realizes as much. He meant it, still means it, every single time — the world ought to know of the brilliant, wonderful,  _amazing_  man Billy Rocks is. And while some selfish part of Goodnight still craves to be Billy’s world, the bigger part of him wants the man to be happy. One can never have too many friends on this earth, and Billy deserves more than just Goodnight on his side.

He sees Billy helping out with repairs alongside Vasquez more and more these days, working hard together and having conversations Goodnight can’t hear beyond Vasquez’s occasional loud, guffawing laughter. He sees Billy head out with Red Harvest most days, to hunt or fish or just ride together, in a world Goodnight will never understand and will never attempt to butt into, growing up as a white man. Sometimes he comes back to the Imperial to see Sam and Billy, or Jack and Billy, just sitting in easy contemplative silence, each doing their own thing. And, on occasion, Goodnight still sees Billy keeping Faraday company — playing cards, or exchanging barbed comments.

And here, tonight, with all them gathered ‘round their usual table at the Imperial, Goodnight can see it too — the bright, amused shine in Billy’s eyes even if his mouth betrays barely anything, the easiness of his posture that used to almost always be tense and coiled around anyone else. Watches relieved and fond beyond words, at the way Billy’s shoulders rest easy, leaned a little Goodnight’s way, even as his eyes watch comfortably as Faraday wins at another hand of cards that were almost definitely cheated.

“ _Ay, cabrón,_  there’s no point in playing if all you do is cheat!” Vasquez complains, slamming his cards down and scowling, though Goodnight notes that he gathers his cards again anyway.

Faraday only grins, still as cocksure as ever even with the scars stretching over a quarter of his face. “Aw, have some sympathy, Vas. I gotta have a little advantage, injured man as I am.”

Vasquez snorts, though there’s an amused tinge to it. “Oh, of course. It’s not because you’re afraid of losing, eh?”

“Hey, I could beat you fair ‘n square without  _any_  hands!” Faraday scowls.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,  _güero_ ,” Vasquez hums, smirking now, “But fine, okay, if you are too afraid to face me like a man, then we play your way.”

“Oh, you Texican son of a — “

It should really say something, how much the sound of the two of them squabbling comes across as more of a comfort than anything to be concerned by. As it is, Goodnight just rolls his eyes affectionately and casts a look at Sam, who’s looking at him with the same exasperated-fond look that just says  _kids, right_? Besides him, Billy just rolls his eyes, and Goodnight laughs, squeezing Billy’s shoulder where he’s had his arm wrapped around for the better half of the night (another very, very good reason why he’s so happy — being able to do  _this_ , in the company of people they respect, without fear.)

“Alright, alright,” Sam finally announces after the two start devolving to petty slaps that may end up in ill-timed wrestling, “That’s enough. Save it for the road, you two.”

 _That_  catches Goodnight’s attention. Billy’s too, if the way he abruptly straightens in Goodnight’s arm says anything. “The road, you say?”

Jack blinks, before humming. “Ah, right. He hasn’t told the lot of you yet.”

“Told the lot of us  _what_?” Faraday frowns, fight completely forgotten within the second. “What’d we miss?”

“Nothin’ to get your hackles up about. Settle down, Faraday.” Sam assures, smiling as Faraday snorts and huffs but settles all the same. “Not so long ago I’d sat here discussing... Future prospects, you could say, with Jack here, and Red Harvest, miss Emma, and Teddy Q. And we were thinkin’ — and I admit, I might’ve been a mite presumptuous in thinking so, but — “

“Aw, out with it, Chisolm,” Faraday whines, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“I was thinkin’ we’d do some good, all of us riding out together after this.” Sam finally says, nods with an air of finality. “Maybe not on anymore glory rides against an army of men, but bounty hunting is still a profitable trade these days, and I reckon we could haul in a decent amount with the manpower we have. Safety and power in numbers ‘n all. And for those whose bounties are a little less than just — as has happened to one or two of our own here,” and then Sam nods to Vasquez, “We can settle it peaceable, maybe even iron things out.”

“Balancing the scales of justice,” Goodnight muses, “The righteous and honourable Sam Chisolm.”

“And the righteous and honourable Sam Chisolm would be honoured to travel with such equally righteous and honourable people,” Sam continues with a quirk of a smile, “and Faraday.”

“Hey!”

“Red’s already agreed, as has our delightful miss Emma and young Teddy,” Sam moves on without missing a beat, “Though Jack will be staying behind.”

“Settling down, my friend?” Vasquez says with a smirk, though it’s more friendly than teasing, and Jack’s easy smile after is proof enough of it.

“Can’t say that too soon,” Jack answers breezily, “But I’m old ‘n tired of fightin’. Was settlin’ down before this, and now I think I’d like to continue so, if Rose Creek would have me.”

“I think Rose Creek would slaughter a cow ‘n bring it to your doorstep if you asked ‘em to,” Faraday snorts, “You sure it ain’t cause of that Leni lady?”

“That’s Mrs Frankel to you, son.” Jack says with a pointed look.

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Sam intercepts, “as you can see, it might be a mite presumptuous of me to assume the lot of you would agree to come with me. And of course, there’s no obligation to do so. It’s an offer I’m extending, and it’d be a great honour on my behalf to have you fine men travel with me, but if you want to go your own way after all this or stay behind, then you’re all more than welcome to do so. No ill will, just an offer.”

A chorus of murmurs breaks out over the table. Goodnight already knows his answer, naturally — but he’s eager to see whether the rest of them will agree. Lord knows he’s gotten attached to these men fast — some of the best he’s ever come to know, and what a true honour it is to know them. It’s a true shame that Jack won’t come with them, but that’s one thing he agrees with — if there’s anywhere to settle down and rest old bones, Rose Creek would be the place for it. Goodnight hums in agreement to himself, and tightens his grip on Billy’s shoulder, still as rigid as it was earlier.

“I mean,” Faraday finally says after a beat or two, a hint of something Goodnight thinks is  _hesitance_ , “Don’t know how much use I’d be on the road, but I don’t mind taggin’ along, so long as you lot promise not to shoot me in my sleep.”

“Don’t worry,  _güero_ ,” Vasquez says easily, “If we shoot you I promise it’ll be to your face.”

Faraday’s face falls into a deadpan. “Wow, Vas. Flattered, really.”

“My offer’s genuine. Would be happy to have you on the team.” Sam says, “I certainly can’t guarantee there won’t be fights picked, but I’d suppose that’d be par for the course. And I’m sure you could lose both your hands and still find a way to handle your wild horse and draw a six-shooter and rob a man blind with your cards.”

Faraday’s cocky smile at Vasquez is only barely overshadowing the genuine relief Goodnight can see in his shoulders. Vasquez’s eyeroll, however, is extremely real, and it makes Goodnight grin despite himself.

“I would not mind, myself,” Vasquez says, pointedly looking away from Faraday’s smug look, “But walking into towns... There is still a bounty on my head,  _amigo_. You said it yourself — men still after my neck, even after this.”

“Sure. But I can pull some strings. Make up a few stories. Hell, could pull you off as the identical twin brother of the outlaw Vasquez, who’s fled back to Mexico, I don’t know.” Sam shrugs. “’Course, can’t guarantee nothin’, but I’m sure we could fashion up a decent enough excuse to have you ride into town with us. I could tear down the bounty papers where I can. And if anything  _were_  to happen, well — you’d have at least seven other guns watching your back instead of pointin’ at it, now.”

Vasquez’s breath of relief and easy recline is answer enough, but then his grin makes its way up and he waves his hands anyway. “Well, we have had stupider plans work for us before. Alright,  _amigo_ , we do this your way. I am now the — what did you say it was? Twin brother? — I am now Manuel Vasquez, at your service.”

Faraday blinks. “Vasquez ain’t your first name?”

Vasquez frowns. “No? It’s Alejandro,  _güero_.”

“What! You son of a bitch, you never told us you  — “

“Why would I tell — “

“Goodnight,” Sam says, turning to completely ignore the bickering that’s started on between the two others that no one else would even be inclined to try and stop, “What about you?”

“What about me, Sam?” Goodnight replies, smile turning up easy on his mouth, reflected in Sam’s own.

“You comin’ with?”

Goodnight laughs, before putting on an exaggerated face of pondering, hand not around Billy’s shoulder coming up to stroke his beard a little. “Well, I don’t know, Sam. Gettin’ mighty used to the feeling of a nice, warm bed under me at night ‘stead of the rocky dirt roads. Can’t say I’m too starved for company either in a town like this one.”

Sam — well. Sam gets the joke, as he reclines, laughter in the crinkles of his eyes. “That so? Heard you were gettin’ on well with the preacher and the trader.”

“Mr Brownings is a skilled man,” Goodnight nods, “And the preacher! Well-read, that one. You know he reads Hugo? Rare thing, in these parts. And then there’s the food, the baths — lord, Sam, I think you need the latter most of all.”

He hoots out a laugh as Sam shoots a pointed look his way, before it morphs into amusement and he shakes his head. Turns to look at the man besides Goodnight instead, inclines his head there.

“And you, Rocks?”

“I go where Goodnight goes,” Billy replies, and.

And there’s something off about it. Goodnight knows it, instantly, knows something is wrong from the second Billy opens his mouth. He was rigid, before — now the man seems like he’s made of stone, eyes hardened into narrow slits, voice coming out as if through gritted teeth, and — more upsettingly — an unhappy downward lilt to his mouth. To anyone else, he may just seem like he’s back to his old self — to Goodnight? He knows something is wrong.

He doesn’t have the time to ask Billy ‘bout it, though — and neither is he inclined to, not in front of all these eyes — because Sam is talking before he can say a word.

“Well,” Sam says, “It’ll be some weeks still before we head out, so take it easy ‘til then. We’ll leave once everyone’s healed up better, all eight of us.”

“ — And so,” Faraday breaks in easy, away from the grumbley look Vasquez is throwing at him, “How ‘bout a game of cards to pass the time?”

Lessons never learnt, most of ‘em round the table agree to a round or two, Goodnight included. Red Harvest leaves — of course he does, uninclined to stick around to observe more stupidity from his new comrades — but even Billy tries to pick up the cards and play along. And Goodnight — he finds himself well and truly  _hating_  it.

Something’s wrong, and Goodnight knows it, and it’s prickling down his spine in waves of unhappiness that makes him frown worriedly everytime he looks at his beloved. Billy hasn’t moved from his position in Goodnight’s hold, still playing cards like nothing is wrong, but he’s as stiff as a tree and twice as silent. A stark difference from the man he’s been lately, the man who’s been more open, carefree, smiling even if he wasn’t laughing, at ease around this ragtag group of strays they’ve found themselves fitting comfortably among.

Now — now it seems like Billy’s gone back to the man he was before all of this began. And Goodnight loved him then, sure, just as fiercely and with all his heart, but it hurts him some to know that something’s dialled back his love’s smile, and he doesn’t know what. He was fine up until just a little while ago — what was said that’s made him like this?

In the end, Goodnight can’t take it. They make it all of two rounds — both lost, of course, to a very smug Faraday who Goodnight will bet will get into another fight with Vasquez before the night is over — before Goodnight finally lays down his hand and claims to be tired, wanting to head to bed. Billy’s up to join him without a second thought and without a word. Sam and Horne do the same, though to retire to their own rooms — or at least, Goodnight reckons, to do the smart thing and get away from the childish fight sure to break out again between the other two at the table.

It’s an easy walk back to their room, but it’s filled with a tension that hasn’t been there since the week leading up to Rose Creek. Billy walks a few steps ahead of Goodnight — the way he does when he needs to think, needs space, and Goodnight trails along behind him meek and confused and worried, like a lost hound after a master who won’t look at him.

It’s quiet, all the way up to the room. It’s quiet even as Goodnight shuts the door, and quiet even as Billy lights the lamp that puts the room in a soft glow. Goodnight watches as Billy unties his hair, and while by instinct he wants to close the distance between them — wants to wander close, run his fingers through Billy’s hair, press his mouth to Billy’s shoulders and feel Billy’s quiet laugh against his scalp — there are more pressing concerns, and finally Goodnight can’t take it.

“ _Cher_ ,” Goodnight breaks the fragile quiet, his own soft voice sounding damn near deafening in the room, “what’s wrong?”

Billy doesn’t turn around. “Nothing’s wrong, Goody.”

Goodnight frowns. “You and I both know that’s not right, sweetheart. You’ve been actin’ funny since earlier. What’s eating you?”

Billy’s shoulders lift, minutely, the way he does when he’s about to say something — and then abruptly falls. Like all the fight’s gone out of him, still quiet as ever, and Goodnight feels the worry climb up higher in his system.

“Billy?”

“Goodnight,” Billy says, and lord does his full name sound  _wrong_  this way in Billy’s mouth, “Do you like it here? In Rose Creek?”

Goodnight frowns deeper, now. For a different reason, that being confusion. But he moves forward cautiously, answers honestly all the same. “I do.” And then, “Don’t you?”

And Billy finally turns around to meet his eyes, and Goodnight’s heart breaks. The look on his face — it’s both tight and resigned, conflicted. Lord does his chest hurt all over, seeing Billy like this.  _Troubled_  like this.

“it’s... fine. But I don’t — “ and Billy’s face twists here, just a little bit, before going back to something just resigned and troubled and Goodnight  _hates_  it.

“ _Cher_ , talk to me.” Goodnight says, gently, approaches slowly. Moves his hands to brush Billy’s hair out of his face — slow, so Billy can move off if he wants, if he still needs his space, but Billy just leans into it, eyes closing at the familiarity of the touch. It’s enough to reassure Goodnight some, calm a little of his rattling nerves, but the rest of him is still alarm bells going off. “Billy. C’mon now. Don’t gotta hide from me. Please?”

It’s the plea that does Billy in, Goodnight thinks, because it’s there where Billy sighs. Releases the breath in a quiet gust that shakes all of Goodnight’s trees, and meets Goodnight’s eyes — dark pools soft and so  _gentle,_ it. God.

“I want to go with them, Goody.” Billy finally says, and it seems like a fight for him to get it out of his mouth, eyes averting again and brows furrowed. “I want to leave with them.”

Goodnight blinks. “What?”

Billy’s face twists, into something Goodnight now recognizes as familiar — Billy, trying to find words, unsure of how to approach a subject. Goodnight’s always been the one with enough words for the both of them — Billy, not so much.

“I want to go with them. Red. Chisolm. Vasquez. All of them.” Billy says, looking almost... Ashamed? Hesitant, surely, and it’s such a rare thing that even Goodnight stares openly. “But you want to stay. And I — it’s good. Here is good. You’re safe, here. No need to fight anymore. But I want to go with them. But I want to be with  _you_.”

Billy’s mouth keeps moving after, on air, looking for more words to explain a situation that’s never cropped up like this before, before he finally gives up. Sighs, ragged and harsh, turned to the floor and body as rigid as it was, face so  _unhappy_  at the hard decision up ahead. Fists clenched hard enough to turn white at the knuckles. And Goodnight —

Goodnight is stunned. Speechless, once more. And not because Billy has to choose between him and the others, not because Goodnight feels upset or bad or anything of the sort.

No. Goodnight feels stunned because  _by God,_ he never knew he could _love_ someone like this. He’s loved before, well and sure, has had his childhood crushes and his infatuations growing up. Has always had an eye on someone, always been a hopeless romantic in his youth and even now. But he’s never met someone like Billy Rocks, never in his life met anyone that’s made him  _feel_  the way Billy does, and now, standing here, Goodnight is overwhelmed, shocked to stillness again at the realization that never seems to stop hitting him over the head: 

_I love him._

He’s so full of love he doesn’t know how to react. His heart feels like it’s about to explode, feels like it already  _has_ , has melted between his ribs and dripped to the floor and between the boards, unrestrained emotion pooling. Swears by all that’s good and holy that every star in the sky is expanding with his love, could grow ivy between his fingers with all of the nurturing and fondness he feels inside him, could light the sun with how much  _admiration_  he has for Billy Rocks, as he always has, even  _now_  reminded again. He loves Billy Rocks so much he doubts he could ever find the words, even if he devoted the rest of his life to reading every book known to man.

Because here is Billy Rocks, who has dedicated his life to protecting others. Whether he admits it or not, whether he  _realizes_  it or not. Had been sold to provide passage for his mother and siblings, had endured the absolute cruelties of man for a family that traded him for a bare chance at living again. Had protected those like him while he was being beaten and traded and half-killed, had protected them  _again_  when Billy  _did_  shed blood. And even after, after he’d slit his first throat and fled, he’d come back — to protect those like him, to give them a chance to forge their own destiny, even if it branded him a criminal. A  _murderer_. A slave turned killer — something less than human, though he always was to the white men. He sacrificed any chance he had at forging a clean life for himself to give that chance to others.

And after. Even after. With Goodnight, after they’d met. Years and years and years  — protecting Goodnight. Always with Goodnight’s best interests at heart. Never  _serving_  Goodnight, God, no — but always beside Goodnight, always  _protecting_  Goodnight, always by his side. Even here at Rose Creek. A jammed gun, harsh words and a broken heart, just to make sure Goodnight got out with a chance at life.

And  _here_ , and  _now_ , Billy once more being offered a chance to do good in this world. To take out the bad people and offer a second chance to those like him, those like Vasquez — victims of circumstance and branded as less than the animals slaughtered for the dinner table. Of  _course_  Billy would want that.  _That_  is the destiny he’s chosen for himself — to fight, for his own right to choose his path, fighting for others who can’t fight for themselves, and of  _course_  Billy would want to do it with these men they’ve found themselves with. These men, the whole lot of them, wild and untamed and a localized hurricane of chaos and all  _good_.

Billy hasn’t had much in way of friends these years, Goodnight knows. There’s himself, of course, but beyond a few people far and few in between, Billy hasn’t opened himself up to many people. Always on the move before connections can be made. Always riding, onwards and onwards towards the horizon. And Goodnight — well, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little proud of being Billy’s most trusted, but what would that even be if it was just because there was no one else for Billy?

And now there’s these men. These men who Billy’s started to open up to, started to  _trust_ , started to actually  _like_ , and lord, Goodnight would trade anything for that. Goodnight would trade his sleep and his food and his life if the world could know the man Billy Rocks is, could appreciate him the way Goodnight does — Billy deserves all the goodness the world has to offer, he always has, and meeting these people is just one of the many things he’s deserved for a long, long time, and. And.  _And_.

Goodnight doesn’t know which feeling it is that makes the decision for him. Whether it’s how  _good_  Billy Rocks is, how noble and righteous and  _kind_ , whether it’s how Billy  _cares_  about these strangers he’s fought beside not too long ago and just met not too long before that. Whether it’s how Billy loves Goodnight enough to want to  _stay_  even though he wants to go — whether it’s how Billy loves Goodnight enough to not give him the pity of doing so. That he has to decide. That he trusts Goodnight enough to tell him. That he respects Goodnight enough to tell Goodnight that he  _wants_  to leave with them.

No matter what it is — or maybe it’s all of it at once — Goodnight’s mind is made. Just like that.

“Billy,” Goodnight says softly, “ _Cher_. Could you find something in my pack for me?”

Billy looks up, then. Face scrunched in the way it does when he’s confused, and Goodnight’s heart threatens to explode from the fondness it lights within him. Like a schoolboy all over again, daisies growing in his lungs, bursting with life.

“It’s right there.” Billy says, brows furrowed still.

Goodnight can’t help the smile. “I know, but. Please? Jus’ a ‘lil thing, buried a little deep. Folded up in cloth, under Whitman.”

 _That_  just makes Billy frown harder, but in a way that just spells confusion and wariness more than it does troubled, and it takes all of Goodnight not to brush Billy’s brow and smile like an idiot. Still, Billy turns anyway, separates warily from Goodnight to approach the pack like it’s containing some sort of venomous snake. Billy Rocks is not a man much appreciative of surprises — it’s a fact that Goodnight can barely conceal with a grin, even as Billy picks up the pack, back turned to Goodnight, rummaging.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Billy has done so much for Goodnight,  _still_  does so much for Goodnight. Has given so much, without a second thought, without even  _realizing_  all the good he’s done. Even here, digging around with furrowed brows over something he’s not even sure he’s looking for, Goodnight can’t fathom his gratitude over this man. This amazing, brilliant,  _kind_  man, one of the best Goodnight’s ever met.

It wipes any trace of doubt left in Goodnight’s mind. Eases his soul. And makes it easier, still, to walk up to Billy when Billy perks up at reaching what he was looking for and taking it out and —

“Billy,” Goodnight says, voice a rumble as he gently takes the cloth from Billy’s hands, the  _rings_  from Billy’s open palm. Savours, just for the moment, the look of sheer and utter surprise on Billy’s face, the raw disbelief at the side of the glinting metal between the fabric — wide eyed and stunned in a way that comes so rarely that Goodnight commits it to memory immediately.

“Goody?” Billy says, quiet and still with eyes still as big as goose eggs as Goodnight gently takes one of the rings, stuffs the other in his pocket.

As Goodnight gives up on trying to calm his thrumming heart, and gets down on one knee instead.

“Billy,” Goodnight says, his voice already fraying at the edges as he finally looks up to meet Billy’s wide eyes, heartbeat thundering like hoofbeats in his ears. His whole self seeming to shake even as his face breaks into a grin he can’t contain, dizzy with love and adoration. “I was — shit. I was planning to do this right ‘n proper. Under the stars or somethin’, somewhere more romantic than the sickroom that smells more than a little of our convalescence. But I can’t wait for a second longer.”

Billy’s hands are trembling. Goodnight can see them out of the corner of his eyes, even as his own breath shakes with every exhale, as he pushes on.

"Rose Creek is a fine town. No doubt about that. We barely saved our skins trying to save it, and it was worth it every step of the way — for the people, for ourselves. And to be sure, I’ve grown to love this town and everyone in it. Not often we meet folks this genuine. Not often we meet this sort of sincerity out on the road.” Goodnight croaks on, eyes determinedly fixed on Billy’s, unwavering, even as his arms start trembling with the rest of him.

“But Billy. Lord,  _Billy_ , I was  _never_  going to stay here. Not unless you wanted to.” ( — and here, Billy’s eyes widen, as if that were even possible — ) “I was joking, earlier, I thought you knew. The road still calls for me and I respect those men down there, even as much like children they can be — I’d even consider them family, if it came down to it. I already do.

“And you.  _You_. Billy Rocks, you’re — you’re the  _best soul_  I have ever met, one of the best men I’ve ever seen in all my born days, and you prove it, over and over. Just proved it  _again_ , and every time you remind me. Every single time you remind me how much I love you.  _Why_  I love you. Every single day, every single moment, with everything you give me, give  _us_ , give the world, even if it ain’t done a thing to deserve it, and you. And we. And  _I._ “

Goodnight’s throat hitches. Voice frays, threatens to come apart, too full of all the love he wants to give but doesn’t have the words to say because there could never  _be_  enough words to encapsulate all he feels, but —

He clears his throat anyway. And lifts his hands. Offers the silver band in his shaking fingers, like offering half his own beating heart.

“I don’t want to waste another moment, Billy. I want to give you every kindness you’ve given me, want to spend the rest of my life loving you, as I always knew I would, from the second you smiled at me the first time. I always knew you held my heart. I always knew I’d come back to you, every time, I’d follow you to the ends of this earth and beyond. I don’t want to waste another word without you.” Goodnight swallows again, but keeps his eyes trained. On Billy’s own dark ones, on the way Billy’s hair falls on his cheeks, on the way his lower lip trembles, and Goodnight summons all of what’s left of his heart and spine and soul.

“Billy Rocks, will you marry me?”

And the room goes quiet. And the world  _stops_. And Goodnight swears,  _swears_ , everything around them slows to a crawl, to  _nothing_ , until it’s just him and Billy and this room and the flickering lamplight, and the ring glimmering soft in Goodnight’s hand, and the tremble of Billy’s mouth and Goodnight’s entire being. Nothing but that. Nothing beyond any of this.

The moment passes between here and there and lasts an eternity and Goodnight feels his hopes crumble, slowly, as Billy still stares, wide-eyed and silent, gorgeous mouth barely parted. Maybe Goodnight was wrong to do this. Maybe he shouldn’t have ruined the good thing they had, maybe he should’ve kept his damned trap shut —

But immediately, Goodnight banishes the thought. Because despite everything, of everything he’s ever done in this life — he doesn’t regret this. Will  _never_  regret this.

“You can say no,” Goodnight speaks up again, breaks the fragile quiet with an even more fragile voice, though it gains a little more solidity, gets more brave and sure as he pushes himself on. “And that’ll be okay. Swear to God, Billy, you could tell me to get out of town right tonight and I won’t regret this. I just had to try. I just wanted you to  _know_. That I love you, love you more than anything I’ve ever loved in my life, will spend the rest of my life loving you even if you ask me to leave, because that’ll be okay. Because I just need you to be alright, because I want you to be happy. And I want to make you happy, Billy, I do. Want to bring you everything that makes you happy, want to grow old and fat and grey with you, and if going away would make your life easier then by God, I promise you, I’ll do it tonight and my heart would still be lighter than anyth — “

Goodnight doesn’t get to finish, though, because suddenly Billy’s ducking down, and then somewhere between this second and the next Billy’s hands are fisting in Goodnight’s shirt and yanking him up and —

“Goody,” Billy says, voice rough with something that makes Goodnight’s heart  _explode_ , “Shut up.”

Oh.  _Oh_.

The world starts moving again, but Goodnight feels like he’s floating, dizzy with all the love he can’t possibly contain —  _here_. With Billy pressed against him, Billy’s fingers tight in Goodnight’s shirt, his  _mouth_  against Goodnight’s own and conveying all the affection Goodnight hopes comes through as his own free hand grabs Billy’s sleeve, pulls him  _closer,_ as if they could become one person if they just pulled hard enough into each other. He can feel starbursts in his eyelids, the sun in his chest, Billy against him and with him and  _loving_ , love in all it’s fullness, beat-beat-beating against his bruised chest like a bird set to fly.

He thinks he’s crying. Thinks they’re  _both_  crying, and finds he’s right, when they finally part for air and Goodnight sees the shimmer of Billy’s cheeks and the dampness of his own, and he can’t help but raise his hand to stroke Billy’s face. Gently thumb away the moisture, wipe his cheek with the rough of his palm and wonder,  _wonder_ , if Billy can hear his pulse from where he’s standing, skin to fragile skin.

“You know,” Billy says, finally breaks the silence. Voice steadier than Goodnight’s but still wavering, just a mite, giving away the fondness in his eyes and the smile that breaks on his face soon after that makes the sky break in a gorgeous sunrise in Goodnight’s own soul, “You could have just told me this was a misunderstanding.”

Goodnight’s grin is immediate, wide, stupid, and shameless with all of it. “Would’ve, but you had to go and remind me why I love you. Been doin’ that a lot lately.”

Billy’s smile could power the  _sun_. “Oh, really.”

“Mmhm. The past ten years, actually.” Goodnight says, and then grins like a right fool when Billy breaks into a grin so wide and fond and rare that he ducks his head,  _lord_. “... So is that a yes?”

Billy _snorts,_ but the look in his eyes is soft enough to melt Goodnight, like water between fingers. Even when it goes a little sad, ‘round the edges.

“Goody...” Billy says, slow. Hands unfisting Goodnight’s shirt, but never leaving his chest. “You know I want to. You know that. But we can’t — “

And Goodnight’s face brightens  _instantly_. “We  _can_.”

Billy blinks. “What?”

“We can. If we wanted to. Talked to the preacher — or rather, he ran into me, you know the man reads Hugo? —  and we could — lord, Billy, anything you want. We could have the biggest ceremony this side of the Mississippi, could be just the two of us and him to officiate — hell, we could just wear these and call it a night, if you wanted. Anything.” Goodnight says, smiling hard enough to hurt. Finally brushes Billy’s face again, tender. “anything you want. Anything  _we_  want. I know I do — in any way you’d have me.  _If_  you’d have me.”

Billy — Billy  _smiles_. Runs calloused fingers through the hair at the nape of Goodnight’s neck, in a way that sends a rush of affection down Goodnight’s spine, warm down to his marrows.

“I love you, Goody.” Billy says, voice tender and soft, and as true as the sun.

Goodnight knows the face he’s making, flushed, pleased. Doesn’t care a continental about it either. “And I love y — “

“ — I love your face. Your eyes. Your hands, your laugh. Your stupid stories. Your stupider jokes. Your pride and your shame. Your permanent hat hair. The way you always insist on fixing my clothes even though we wear the same damn thing every week.” Billy continues on, even as Goodnight squawks in indignation and flushes with embarrassment, “Even the way you talk to your horse that makes me feel like I have to fight her for your attention.”

“ _Hey now_ ,” Goodnight argues feebly, face burning, “Chêne is a mighty fine horse — “

Billy quiets him again, with the way his hand moves to cup Goodnight’s cheek, gentle even as his eyes are clearly shining,  _laughing_ , though in a way that makes Goodnight’s heart thrum more than anything else. Even more, even more, as Billy’s roughened palm rests on Goodnight’s cheek, and Goodnight turns — presses his mouth, soft and adoring and  _tender_ , against Billy’s callouses, and watches Billy’s eyes go dark with affection so rich that Goodnight goes dizzy with it.

“I love the way you talk to me. I love the way you read to me, the way you dance, the way you sing. The way you keep giving, and giving. The way you look in firelight, or anywhere. Everything you do, you are, I love.” Billy murmurs, voice soft. Rough. Gorgeous, infinite. “I love you. I love being with you. It’s been ten years. I want an eternity more.”

Goodnight breathes warm, hitched, against Billy’s hand. Feels his pulse racing. “... So is _that_ a yes?”

“ _Goody_ ,” Billy says, and there’s definitely laughter in his voice, that gorgeous wide grin on his face now, “The answer was  _always_  yes. It always would be.”

Goodnight’s been through a lot over the years. More than his fair share of experiences, he reckons, most of it tainted with the things he’s seen, done, in the war. He’s made his mistakes. Has seen each one of ‘em through. He’s weathered the worst of what life has given him and, as of late, had come back from the dead only to watch the love of his life almost be ripped away from him by something as small as infection. 

Therefore, he believes it his godgiven right to kiss Billy Rocks as hard as he can, now, and he does. Hard enough to almost hurt but as tender as his heart can give. Billy’s smile against his mouth —

He’d do all of this over again, just to feel that, for the rest of his life.

When they pull away Goodnight’s breathless in the best of ways, and Billy’s face is lit up — bright and shining and grinning gorgeous, and it makes Goodnight’s heart pull with affection so strong he swears his knees will give.

“And here I thought I was the poet,” Goodnight hums, cheeks aching from his smiling still, “Though, you should never feel threatened by Chêne, you know. I’ll always love you more than anything.”

Billy crooks an amused smile. “You’d better, if you’re marrying me.”

Now  _that_  sends a flare of delight up Goodnight’s spine, makes him grin harder than anything.  _Marrying me_. “Always and forever, cher. You know that.”

“I do.” Billy smiles.

“... Though, you must admit, Chêne is a  _mighty_  fine horse, and considerably less inclined to bite like yours does, with the most lovely coat — “

“Goody,” and Billy’s look turns into something painfully straddling between deadpan and mirth, here, “If you don’t shut up about that horse of yours, you can go wed it instead.”

Goodnight schools his face into one of horror. “But Billy, how’ll I put the ring on it?”

Billy  _bursts_  into laughter, bending over with it and slapping Goodnight on the arm, and Goodnight can’t help but follow after, hooting hard enough to hurt. By the time they’re done they’re breathing hard, almost tearing up. When Billy tugs on Goodnight’s sleeve and falls to the bed, well. Goodnight’s more than happy to follow after, lying on his side to look his fiancé in the face. Spends the rest of the evening kissing every inch of it, in the delicate lamplight.

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, it’s about time you both had this opportunity. Long overdue, I’d say.”

Goodnight’s mouth twitches into a smile, looking beside him. “You’re tellin’ me, Sam.”

Sam only laughs, low and comforting beside him, and Goodnight feels a little of the nervous energy buzzing like bees inside him calm. It’s hardly saying much, of course — Goodnight reckons he’s never quite felt this way in all his born days. Nervous, yes, conflicted, most definitely — but never like  _this_ , feeling at once like he’s about to fidget his way out of his freshly-pressed clothes and also like his heart may burst into a thousand colours with sheer joy.

Naturally, Sam is as calm as a river rock beside him. Which is simultaneously as much a comfort as it is infuriating, but that’s par for the course as far as Goodnight’s concerned, and if he had to be honest, there’s no one else he’d rather have at his back on a day like today. There could’ve been no one else in the world better to be Goodnight’s best man — even  _if_  the first time Goodnight asked a week ago, Sam had merely smirked and said  _may can_  and made Goodnight squawk hard enough in indignation that he choked on his own spit and Sam had aches laughing.

And lord, has it only been a week? It feels both like it’s been an eternity and also just yesterday when he’d first gotten down on his knee and offered Billy the rest of his life. In hindsight, Goodnight realizes the proposal was quite possibly the easiest thing by far of this whole ordeal — as Sam had said, this was long overdue. Even if Billy had said no, Goodnight would’ve still come away from that proposal a lighter man, both in heart and soul.

But Billy had said yes, had agreed to a proper wedding ceremony even — a fact that had surprised Goodnight initially before remembering that they may never have a chance like this again — and then Goodnight had informed the preacher the following morning. And then the preacher said  _I’ll make the due arrangements._

And then there was  _chaos_.

In the span of a single week, Rose Creek looked like a localized hurricane hit it with new fervor. Goodnight and Billy had both been shocked — they’d asked for a ceremony, yes, with whoever would like to attend being free to do so, yes. They’d expected a few people to come over and spectate, such as the rest of their merry band, perhaps miss Emma and young Teddy, sure. They’d expected something small, simple, a celebration with whatever they had on hand, lord knows they’ve grown to become resourceful people.

But instead, a large portion of Rose Creek jumped at the opportunity and whisked both Goodnight and Billy away into a week of planning and questions more intricate than perhaps even their initial plans for Rose Creek. If these people had half the energy they had yanking at Goodnight’s collar and taking his size to make a suit for, he’d reckon they might’ve finished off Bogue much faster.

They’d had suits made. There was  _decorations_ , and  _music_ , and at some point he and Billy had collapsed into bed sometime in the week and slept off an entire evening unwilling to move because Mrs Frankel is frankly a  _terror_  in the kitchen and had fed them with enough samples of apple pie that Goodnight’s belt felt close to popping open. Even Billy’s eyes looked amusingly overwhelmed with all the attention. Goodnight — well. He can’t say he’s not overwhelmed either, but the good kind of overwhelming? For an occasion like this? It’s a novelty and Goodnight will take it. (and besides, it’s made collapsing into bed with Billy in private at night all the more rewarding.)

And all that for this: Goodnight standing at the altar, of a church they’d almost died in. The place itself freshly repaired to brand newness, clean coat of paint, and decorated simple but beautiful, thanks to the efforts of one Emma Cullen who’d thankfully stopped the over-eager hands of the townsfolk. Some sprigs of greenery where they could find it, an aisle scattered with grass seeds that made the church smell like a summer field. Hay woven into circles, unbroken, at the ends of the pews. Paper flowers, painted by the children. It’s hardly the most elaborate wedding venue nor decor Goodnight has ever seen, but by God, if it’s not the most beautiful.

“Now now, no crying before your groom gets here,” Sam speaks up beside him, brings Goodnight back to reality with the laugh in his voice, “You’ll ruin your new suit.”

Goodnight blinks, and finds himself laughing a little, even as he presses his wrist to his eyes to wipe the moisture. “Not like I’m doin’ it on purpose, Sam. Been to a dozen weddings before, s’just... Different, when it’s your own.”

Sam’s face softens, then. Turns fond and affectionate, the sight of a good friend, and Goodnight feels his own chest go warm at the support radiating off of his best man — especially when Sam reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. He really doesn’t deserve all the people he has in his life, but lord if he isn’t thankful for each and every one of them for being there anyway.

“I’m glad I got to attend it,” Sam says, voice low and earnest, “God knows you both deserve it.”

“Not as glad as I am,” Goodnight laughs, feeling the wetness in his voice even before his eyes sting for a second time, “Lord, I could hardly believe the preacher myself. Could hardly believe  _any_  of this, nor the people of Rose Creek.”

Sam hums, turning back to their audience. While the church isn’t quite full, there are still more people than Goodnight would’ve ever expected, all of them looking on at the ceremony with unabashed anticipation or curiosity. And as the preacher had said, those who did not quite approve of all of this had the good grace to at least stay quiet and home and peaceful. Goodnight still can hardly believe it himself. 

“They’re good people, grateful. Not to mention, after what happened, the town needed something to lift the spirits. This is as much for them as for you two.” Sam pauses. “And I think the preacher had a good word with the lot of them.”

Goodnight’s face flushes. “He really didn’t have to, but I’m not sorry that he did.”

“No, neither am I.” Sam smiles. “Make hay while the sun shines, Goody. It’s about time.”

Goodnight’s face softens, here. A knowing feeling settling in his heart, where it belongs. Where it always  _has_  belonged, for all these many years.

“I am,” Goodnight says, low, soft, filled with raw emotion, his heart in his throat and face, “Sam, I love him. There’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more.”

And Sam — Sam only smiles. Earnest, sincere, and clasps his other hand on Goodnight’s shoulder, only to turn him around. And the sight he turns Goodnight to, is enough to make Goodnight’s whole soul lift and take flight.

“I know,” Sam says in his ear, “Tell  _him_  that.”

Goodnight can barely hear it. The world around him goes soft ‘round the edges, like a dream. He swears there’s music, knows they have some men on the guitar and harmonica, but he can barely hear it. His world’s focused on one thing only.

Billy Rocks, coming down the aisle. 

The sight of him is enough to knock all the breath out of Goodnight’s lungs, suddenly unable to breathe with the sight before him. Billy Rocks, dressed gorgeous, sleek, groomed into a pressed dark suit that accentuates all his fine edges. Raven tresses combed silky, dark as an oil slick and twice as beautiful, pinned intricate atop his head with the ever-present silver hairpin, beard and moustache neatly trimmed.

And eyes, dark and  _stunning_ , looking right at Goodnight. The most beautiful mouth Goodnight’s ever seen, spread into a smile, small but so heartfelt that Goodnight feels his soul tremble with all its affection.

Each step Billy takes feels like it’s happening in slow motion, Goodnight’s mind devouring each breath he takes, every sweep of his rebellious locks of hair that come loose and brush his cheeks and forehead, the sunlight pouring in from the open church door behind him and illuminating Billy in soft light, committing it all to memory. Goodnight’s aware of all the eyes on the both of them, of everyone in the room, staring — but he only has eyes for Billy, and he can’t tear them away.

Red Harvest walks with Billy down the aisle, which is as much as Goodnight had expected. The man looks more than a little out of place — a suit was out of the question for the Comanche, and no one had even thought of trying to argue otherwise — but at the same time, looks right where he belongs. At Billy’s back, a hand firm on his shoulder — the way they look at each other as Billy comes halfway down the aisle reminds Goodnight so much of himself and Sam, perhaps even more. Friends,  _brothers_. Goodnight is glad for it.

And then Red is squeezing Billy’s shoulder, and Billy throws a smile at him for it, and then — and then Billy is looking back up at Goodnight with so much  _love_  and anticipation in his eyes, and Goodnight can hardly stop himself from coming down the steps to meet Billy halfway. Knows it’s not part of the ceremony steps and doesn’t care anyway — not with Billy looking at him the way he is, not with the smile that grows wider at it, not with how Billy takes his hand and squeezes as they walk back up to the altar — together.

Goodnight can hardly believe it still, even as they stand across from each other, before the preacher and the people of Rose Creek and their newfound family. Can hardly believe that Billy’s there with him, barely a step away, as breathtaking as he ever is, more beautiful in each slow smile than anybody else would be. This, this that they’d both thought impossible, now  _here_ , past death, past everything that’s been thrown to them over the years — Goodnight can hardly believe it, but in that same way, nothing has felt more  _right_  to him than this. Here, now. With everyone he loves, his new family at the pews, Sam at his back and Billy with him, hand in hand.

“Billy,” Goodnight says, whispers, voice thick with emotion. Doesn’t even realized he’d been crying until Billy smiles and lets go of one hand so he can wipe Goodnight’s cheek with his palm.

“Easy, Goody,” Billy whispers, just as low, voice steady despite the shimmer in his eyes that tells Goodnight that Billy feels the way he does, “Let’s do this.”

And as Goodnight finds the grin breaking across his face, cheeks aching from it, Billy returning it with a smile that could rival a sunset in beauty — the preacher before them smiles just as wide, and begins the ceremony.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”

And so the preacher preaches, and the audience watches on, and Goodnight — well.

For all the fuss they made about the ceremony, for all they spent the week measuring suits and fixing up the church walls with paint and running through music with the three man band playing the wedding march, Goodnight finds he can hardly care about any of it. Can barely pay attention to any of that, everything else soft ‘n faded in the background of Billy Rocks, standing across from him, hands in his, smiling in that ducked, soft way he does when he’s only looking at Goodnight. It makes Goodnight smile. It makes his heart  _sing_. He rubs Billy’s hand with his thumbs in slow circles, and Billy’s eyes twinkle with amusement and fondness.

So distracted is Goodnight by his love that he hardly even realizes when the preacher finishes his grand speech and is urging the two of them on. Not until Sam clears his throat behind him, and he hears Faraday snigger in the seats.

"Your vows?” The preacher urges again, gentle and bemused as he finally catches Goodnight’s eye, and Goodnight’s face flushes red.

“Oh, right, yes, I — “ Goodnight struggles, “I...”

He hadn’t really thought of this part, if he were honest. He’d tried, he did, but nothing had come out right as he was writing them to himself, reciting them. He’d given up, then, figuring that anything worth saying, he could say on the spot  — it’d be more heartfelt if he winged it, right? Something that would come truly from the heart, rather than rehearsed and practiced by his lonesome in a room for hours on end.

But here, now, he found himself struggling again. Not out of any lack of words, but rather an overabundance of them. Because how could he possibly encapsulate how much Billy Rocks means to him in just a span of a few words? Every promise he wants to make and yearns to keep, every dream he wants to see fulfilled, all the hours he aims for them to spend together? Every happiness he aims to give and keep giving ‘til they’re old and grey?

Then —

The hands over his. Squeezing, gentle. Dark eyes before him, that soothe his nerves and clear his mind and ground him, like they always do. Like they have been, for all these years.

And it’s everything. Everything they’ve ever said, everything they’ve ever wanted to say. Everything they’ve ever  _needed_  to say. In every look, every smile, every touch. Every brush of their hands, every flask shared, every cigarette passed for two. Every meal, side by side, every day riding across the wilds, every night under the infinitea of stars. Everything they’ve ever wanted said has already been said, with or without words, and everything they’ll ever want to say, well.

They’ve got the rest of their lives to do it.

“Billy,” Goodnight says, squeezing Billy’s hands just as tight, feeling sincerity tugging on his mouth and his heartstrings, “Wherever you go, I go.”

It’s short. It’s simple. And by the look in Billy’s eyes, tender enough to make Goodnight’s heart  _ache_ , cheeks flushed darker — it’s the right thing to say.

And lord, bless him, because Billy Rocks only grins, eyes shining, and says —

“Equal shares, Goody,” Billy says, lifting one of Goodnight’s hands to press his smiling mouth to his knuckles, “50/50.”

Goodnight can’t help the pleased flush on his own face, or the laugh that bubbles out of him. He’s aware, thank you, that he looks like a giddy fool up here — frankly, he doesn’t have a care in the world about it. The way Billy Rocks stands before him, smiling and laughing with him and  _getting married_  to each other — Goodnight couldn’t care less about anything else at all.

“Could we have the rings?” The preacher says, bemusement in his eyes.

Billy nods, wordless, as he lets go of one of Goodnight’s hands to dig into the breast pocket of his vest, taking out the carefully wrapped ring. (they’d chosen to carry the rings themselves — half because they’d felt it a little awkward to have any of the village children run up to them carrying it, and half because Faraday and Vasquez were halfway to a wrestling match over who could be the ringbearer.)

“Of course, right here — “ Goodnight says, before gasping, and patting his pockets hurriedly. “Why, it’s disappeared!”

A gasp ripples through the crowd, a breeze of shocked whispers. Even the preacher’s eyes go wide. The only people who don’t have the look of panicked surprise is the man behind him, who snorts, and the man before him, who levels Goodnight with a look that’s all exasperation, amusement, and a ridiculous level of fond.

“Goody,” Billy says, tone even.

Goodnight can hardly keep up the act as is, and the way Billy looks at him makes him crack into his fool grin as he holds up his ring, from right in his pocket where he left it.

“Found it.” Goodnight winks. Billy rolls his eyes, but nothing could stop Goodnight from seeing the pleased flush on the man’s cheeks.

The rings are simple, clear metal bands with no need for diamonds or gold, but it takes Goodnight’s breath away all the same as they slide it onto each other. His touch gentle,  _reverent_ , as he holds Billy’s hand up and slides the ring on like it’s the most precious things he’ll ever hold. Billy just as soft with him, and the thrill of peace and happiness as the ring slides onto his finger, coming to rest short of his knuckle, feeling something click in place. Like coming home.

And this — the two of them. Holding hands again, now with glinting steel on their fingers.

The last words of the ceremony can hardly come fast enough.

“ — And now,” the preacher finally says, smiling, “I pronounce you both, the misters Robicheaux-and/or-Rocks. You may now kiss your groom — “

The man barely gets the last word out before they’re both surging forward. Billy’s hands are on his arm and on his face before Goodnight can even blink, Goodnight’s hands pull Billy close without even thinking, and —

They  _kiss_ , pour every ounce of love and affection and promise into it, everything that ever has and will be, and the church erupts into a chorus of cheers and whoops. Goodnight’s heart  _soars_ , takes flight like a bird with a freshly mended wing, feels like he’s  _glowing_  with happiness, and when they finally part and he looks at Billy’s beaming, gorgeous face, he knows that Billy feels the same. This amazing man — and they’re  _married_  now — and Vasquez is whistling loud, Faraday hollering his cheers, Horne clapping  —

“For the rest of our lives,” Billy says, eyes wrinkled ‘round the edges with a happiness Goodnight would easily trade everything he owned to see forever, smile tender and wholesome and  _true_ , and Goodnight can’t help but to kiss it.

“For the rest of our lives,” Goodnight agrees, grins, and then loops his arm around Billy’s. “Now come on, cher — first thing on our agenda as a newly married couple is to apparently stuff ourselves fit to burst out of our belts!”

“Romantic,” Billy deadpans, though he keeps his arm looped around Goodnight’s anyway.

Goodnight’s face hurts from how hard he grins, but he hardly cares, as Billy’s deadpan breaks into a smile all the same, and they walk back down the aisle and out under the open sky.

 

* * *

 

 

It is a true testimony of the rarity of such an occasion and it’s intimate, special meaning that it takes a whole hour and a half before Goodnight feels Billy lean over to his ear and whisper, “ _Let’s get out of here_.”

For all its calm, Goodnight can hear the tinge of desperation in there. And — honestly? Goodnight can’t agree more.

Not to say that neither of them lack any appreciation for the efforts and goodwill of the fine folk of Rose Creek, of course. In fact, Goodnight doubts they would ever feel grateful enough — for the kindness, the hospitality and understanding, for allowing Goodnight and Billy this opportunity that they’d hardly even dared to dream of until only recently.

And the wedding was beautiful, and the reception even more so, in terms of decor. What miss Emma could restrain from being tacked up in the church, she could not take away from the barn  — and now the place was the reception, gorgeously decorated in whatever Rose Creek managed to string together by sheer resourcefulness and an adamant need for perfection. Even Billy had been a little stunned by the degree in which the laying grounds for the farm animals became beautified enough to hold the whole town.

Gorgeous flickering lamplight, some aromatics that Goodnight can’t place that makes the place smell more of cinnamon and flowers than the animals that used to sleep here, and enough sashes and pretty tables that it hardly felt like the same place. More importantly — the place was spacious, and held more than enough room to hold everybody  _and_  the band, and the lavish tables of food that Goodnight’s stomach ached already to look at.

And it was a wonderful reception, to be sure. Any awkwardness Goodnight and Billy might have felt from being seated first at the centre of the main table was immediately cut short by the seating of the rest of the crew beside them. Faraday had started a miniature food fight with Vasquez from across the table within the first five minutes, Red Harvest was saying something that made Sam snort and laugh, and Horne was praying for the patience to stop the wedding from becoming a funeral by his hand. All in all — it was a wonderful wedding feast, and Goodnight and Billy had their knees pressed together under the table the entire time.

But even with the presence of their friends, the hospitality of everyone in attendance, and the honestly delicious food provided — being here had turned chafing a half hour ago, and now it was getting honestly uncomfortable.

Oh, everyone else was having a good time, to be sure. The music was happy and Sam had been right about the event being just as much to raise morale as it had been for the benefit of Goodnight and Billy — the townsfolk looked lighter, happier than they have been in a good long while, celebrating among themselves largely for what they’ve gone through and come out from, dancing and eating and singing and making merry.

But for all the kindness, Goodnight’s least favourite part about weddings — always, and even now at his own — had been the awkward pleasantries after.

The smiles and nods and handshakes, having to talk to every single person that came by — it was repetitive, tiring, and all the more awkward when some of those who came to offer their congratulations had obviously never expected or seen the affections of two men towards each other.  _Like being in one of those damned zoos_ , Faraday had said before — and it felt right now more than it ever did before, the way they were being openly ogled and looked at, though at least not with any hostility, but awkward all the same.

And that’s for Goodnight, who can at least claim to be practiced in all sorts of forced pleasantries and gawking, being a gentleman of the south who was raised in all manners of uncomfortable social gatherings and thus, largely equipped with experience in dealing with this sort of thing. But Billy, however, Billy who had no such experience and has not had pleasant times before with a large number of white folk staring at him —

“Cher, I thought you’d never ask.” Goodnight whispers back hurriedly, and immediately moves to stand from his seat, Billy moving with him.

How they ever manage to sneak out is a miracle in itself, but Goodnight will happily credit the quick thinking and quiet feet of his darling, the swinging tune of the band, and Faraday’s wholehearted ability to keep a crowd riveted and inability to shut up. He reckons only one person saw them creep out the backdoor, but considering said person was dressed in all black and a righteous man, Goodnight has a good feeling that he understands, and so hurries out with his wrist in Billy’s hand out into the cool evening light.

Out in the open air, the difference is immediate. Out, here, just the two of them —  Goodnight relaxes immediately, and he feels Billy do the same, his grip softening even though it never leaves.

His eyes trail to his side, watching Billy slowly lose his tension, out and away from the stifling crowd of people that were as welcome as they were stifling. Watches Billy’s shoulders relax, beneath the gorgeous lines of his suit, watches the lavender evening light curve soft and gentle ‘round Billy’s features. The twinkle of coming moonlight in dark eyes. The intricate raven tresses starting to come loose in gentle waves by his face. The way his whiskers move as he exhales, calm.

The gentle wink of silver on Billy’s free hand, and the way Goodnight’s heart flutters.

“Billy?” Goodnight asks, voice coming out in a whisper before he realizes it.

“Hmm?” Billy responds, looking back at Goodnight and —  _lord_ , there’s no mistaking the tender look that overcomes Billy’s own features.

It only serves to fuel Goodnight’s own sappy, foolish smile, as he gently wriggles his wrist out of Billy’s hand to hold it proper instead. “Come walk with me?”

Billy’s mouth quirks in fond amusement. “Yes, dear.”

Goodnight  _snorts_ , but walks forward anyway, Billy falling into step as easy as breathing.

They walk out, comfortable silence between them, palm to palm, pulse to fragile pulse. The evening is carefully making its way in, tiptoeing featherlight, bringing about a welcome chill to counter the day’s sweltering heat. Billy looks more and more at ease as they head out further into the outskirts, closer to the fields — far enough that no one will interrupt or bother them, but not too far that they can’t hear anyone calling for them if needed.

Not that Goodnight thinks they’ll be called upon for the rest of the night. Judging by the increase in music and cheering, the party has only really begun, and there was still whiskey and beer to be broken out.

Billy snorts when Goodnight tells him as much. “Good,” he says, as they come to a stop by a fence and finally lets go of Goodnight’s hand to shrug off his suit jacket, “I’ve missed you.”

Goodnight laughs, helping Billy out of the article of clothing, draping it neatly over the fence. “We were literally just wed in holy matrimony, cher.”

“But we spent almost the whole week apart.” Billy grumbles, rolling his eyes as he leans against the wood. Sulking, really, though Goodnight’s sure he’ll receive a glare if he voices it, so he keeps it bemusedly to himself. “Only time I’ve seen you has been at night, and we just pass out.”

“I do suppose you’re right, there.” Goodnight gives in, sighing. “As much as I appreciate the kindness of Rose Creek, there’s been so much measuring and pie-tasting this week I do reckon I actually miss the taste of squirrel. Imagine that.”

Billy  _does_  roll his eyes at that one. “Squirrel’s always been fine. You’re just picky.”

Goodnight  _scoffs_. “I simply like to believe I have impeccable taste! Unlike  _some_.”

“I do have good taste,” Billy points out, turning to look at Goodnight again, “Just look at my husband.”

And. That. That’s.

Goodnight is sure he stops  _breathing_ , his heart stops  _beating_  for all of a few glorious seconds, and when it all resumes his face is heated-warm, grinning stupid and flushed pleased. Particularly at the look on Billy’s own face — even in this dim light there’s no mistaking the darkening of Billy’s cheeks, ruddy red, eyes averted almost shy but mouth quirked into a smile Goodnight knows can’t be helped, if Billy’s feeling anything close to what Goodnight is.

Lord, but he loves this man. He loves this man with enough to power every star in the sky and then some.  _Husbands_. The thought alone is enough to make Goodnight giddy. And nothing,  _nothing_  short of divine intervention could stop Goodnight from moving forwards, placing his hands gentle on Billy’s sculpted thighs, and surging up slow to kiss him gentle, sweet, passionate, returned in equal measure and with no less overwhelming warmth.

His heart’s thudding hard still when he pulls away, grinning up at Billy with shameless adoration on his face. Radiantly besotted, especially when Billy’s beautiful eyes reflect the same back.

“Well, I reckon _my_ husband is a man of the first water himself,” Goodnight says against Billy’s mouth as he steals another kiss, “Handsome and perfect and wonderful — even if he enjoys the taste of squirrels.”

Billy snorts, even though any faux-annoyance is quickly overshadowed by the kiss he steals right back, no chance of hiding the pleased ruddiness to his face. “They’re not that bad, Goody.”

“Then I vow to feed you nothing but the finest squirrels for all our lives,” Goodnight’s eye twinkles with mischief, and he presses a fist to his heart dramatically, “As your partner in life, through better or worse, I promise you.”

Billy’s face is a hilarious mix of amused and horrified, and Goodnight can’t help but laugh over it. “You know what, I’ll pass.”

Goodnight only laughs harder over it, and Billy follows soon after, laugh softer but as sincere as it ever is, and Goodnight feels as if there’s nothing else wrong in the world. How could there be, with the way he feels?

“Anything you want, cher,” Goodnight says magnificently, grinning wide and wild when he straightens up, “Squirrel or steak, I’ll find a way to give it to you. Wine and gold and jewels, poetry and serenades — anything you want!”

“I’ve got no use for gold or jewels, and you like wine more than I do.” Billy says dryly, though his mouth curves into infinite fondness and amusement and  _love_ , “And you speak enough poetry for the both of us, no serenades needed.”

And right as Billy says that, Goodnight’s ear catches something sailing over the breeze. Something familiar, crisp and clear over the evening, and his grin gets ever-wider as he sees Billy realize the tune too, eyes going wide.

“Oh, no — “ Billy says, half-laughing, mirth in his eyes even as he holds a hand out to wave Goodnight away.

But Goodnight laughs all the same, and takes Billy’s hand in his own, pulling him lightly forward as he says, “If not a serenade, then a dance!”

Billy rolls his eyes, but nothing can hide the grin of his own mouth, and Goodnight feels his heart fill with light and wonder as Billy hops off the fence, landing as graceful as any feline before Goodnight. The music coming from the barn not too far away is only lightly muffled, but the tune ever-clear, and it’s bright and beautiful and Goodnight feels only the same in his soul and for the man before him as Billy takes his hand and places the other on Goodnight’s waist, Goodnight mirroring the same, and they start to dance.

They step as jovial as the tune sets out, and between them there’s no real way to tell what sort of dance they’re actually doing. Goodnight is fairly certain Billy had started out leading, but with the energy of the tune and their own good spirits and Goodnight’s proudly infectious liveliness, they’re soon doing nothing more than stepping around like silly children, laughing at each other’s silly and growingly outlandish actions in the dance. Billy dips Goodnight at some point in a remarkably show-offy move that has Goodnight feeling as breathless like a boy again, and at another point Goodnight spins with a flourish and curtseys, making Billy’s eyes scrunch with how hard he’s laughing.

By the time the music ends they’re laughing so hard that they can barely stand, unrestrained emotion in every part of them, arms wrapped around each other and foreheads pressed together as they shake with mirth, noses brushing. And then Goodnight takes a misstep back, and in a heartbeat they’re tumbling down to the ground, collapsing in a heap of even giddier laughter than before, tangled like they don’t know whose limbs belong to who.

They stay like that for awhile, even as the not-so-distant music changes tunes and their laughter dies to breathless chuckles, and then comfortable quiet. The stars come out in their multitudes, shining brilliant above them in an eternal carpet of twinkling captivation, and a gentle breeze ripples the grass of the fields around them. With Billy beside him, laughing and breathing with him, and the whole world before them — what more could Goodnight ask for?

In the end, Goodnight doesn’t ask for a thing — just moves to kiss Billy again, sweet and contented, when they’ve regained their breath. Moves back only to look at him,  _truly_  look at him — here, gently illuminated by starlight, more beautiful in the single gentle curve of his smile than anyone else would be in their entire lifetime. And when Billy moves forward to kiss Goodnight, long and deeper and passionate, breaking apart only to lean his forehead against Goodnight’s own, he’s never felt less inclined to do anything else than pulling away or moving.

Surprisingly, it’s Billy who breaks the silence. Voice quiet but crystal clear to Goodnight, here in the grass and surrounded by stars.

“I don’t want or need anything from you, Goody.” Billy whispers, eyes then shut and now open, gazing so open and raw and honest that it steals the air from Goodnight’s lungs, “Just you. Only you.”

Goodnight feels his throat so dry, tongue so clumsy — over Billy, always Billy, who could make him feel like this without even trying. It takes him a few swallows before he can even begin to speak again.

“You have me. You have me.” Goodnight finally croaks, taking Billy’s hand and holding it tight with promise, “You have my love and loyalty. My companionship. My trust. I promise you that, for all eternity.”

“I’ll be beside you. For as long as you want me, I promise you.” Billy whispers, voice thick with emotion that has Goodnight’s eyes prickling. And Goodnight’s own smile warbles true, as Billy smiles back, tears starting to slide.

“Through all that life has to offer, whatever that may be,” Goody grins, even as his tears blur his vision, “Wherever we go after this.”

“Anywhere we want, Goody. We can go anywhere we want.” Billy murmurs, laugh in his voice as he wipes Goodnight’s tears from his cheeks and then from his own. “Maybe take a break from defending towns against armies, though.”

 _That_  startles a laugh out of Goodnight, one that makes Billy grin. “That is  _more_  than reasonable, cher. We’ll head out of here with the others in due time, and then I’m sure we can always have holidays whenever we wish.”

Billy’s lips quirk into an amused, questioning smirk then. “Holidays?”

“Holidays.” Goodnight affirms. “Because you cannot honestly tell me that we wouldn’t need a break from them every once in awhile. Lord, Billy, fond as I am of them, there’s only so much yelling I can tolerate.”

Billy pulls a face. “Fair enough. Holidays. The coast?”

“The coast, the mountains — wherever you want, we’ll go.” Goodnight grins. “We’ll explore all the land, all the world! — and then someday we’ll retire and grow grey and old and fat. Maybe farm.”

“You’d be a terrible farmer,” Billy snorts, and Goodnight laughs, “We’d own a saloon instead. Build it from the ground up. Then you can kick your feet up and drink and be as loud as you want — “

“ — And you can intimidate ne’er-do-wells from the bar with a single glare.” Goodnight winks, and delightedly accepts the kiss he receives for it. “Sounds like a grand plan, Billy. A mighty grand plan.”

“We can take our time to decide,” Billy says, voice growing soft. Kissing Goodnight again, gaze growing tender. “We have the rest of our lives.”

And Goodnight — well. Goodnight can only smile, feeling as whole and full and warm as he’s ever felt in all his years, thoroughly in love and finally at some sort of peace, as he nudges them closer together, clasps their hands tighter  — here, under the stars. With the scent of the grass and evening around them, the earth beneath them, and the world and years ahead of them. The best yet to come.

“That we do, Billy,” Goodnight murmurs contentedly, watching the way their rings twinkle gently on their fingers and kissing Billy’s, before kissing Billy once more, “That we do.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> arrives 2 years late to gay cowboys with a 35k monster of a oneshot, hi
> 
> long story: i actually did watch mag7 all those years ago and liked it a lot, loved goody and billy and everything, but i never really was a big into creating fanworks for movies? just not my usual thing. and then see me years later stumbling across the mag7 ao3 tag while lookin thru the works of a fic author i really like and being "hmm why not check it out! i liked the movie, why not look through some fics." which turned out to be an amazing mistake bc whoops this fandom is full of magnificent authors and i just went "oh no" and now i'm here, creating what was supposed to be a oneshot and turned into a 35k monster
> 
> tldr: i made one click and then got carried away writing, what else is new lmao. i don't even look at westerns normally, but first time for everything
> 
> ANYWAY i hope there are still people in this amazing lil fandom, and to anyone who managed to make it through this massive chunk of self indulgence that is this un-betaed oneshot: thank you ! i hope you enjoyed it. any kudos/comments left will make you such a cool person, or at least definitely brighten my spirit
> 
> big thanks to those in the nefelibata server who allowed me to slap down chunks of wips and yell and wordsprint this fic out even tho no one else is in this fandom, and shoutout to sol, for the tears and laughter and fuelling my cowboy madness by letting me draw you back into cowboy madness.
> 
> [ i'm here on tumblr,](keycchan.tumblr.com) please feel free to say hi ! especially if you want to yell about these cowboys. i have no one to yell with proper about these cowboys. i have no mouth and i must yeehaw
> 
> recommended listening for this fic: [3 rounds and a sound](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juvwlEO-x2o) / [ samson ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6EXUQUXtgI) / [ all this time ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lIY_2t0ZKPU) / [ can't help falling in love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sQeQC4hT10) / [ the book of love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1ByG_FO69g) / [ colourful ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3c1C8pcZujs) / [ shrike ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EWLqdAJbu0A) / [ for the dancing & the dreaming ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDJNv_T6u4U)


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